;?5^^^' 


COLLEGE 


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THREE  MINUTE  DECLAMATIONS 


FOR 


COLLEGE   MEN 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED  BY 

Harry  Cassell  Davis,  A.M.,  Ph.D.,  and  John  C.  Bridgman,  A.B. 


FOURTH    EDITION,    REVISED   BY   DR.    DAVIS 


WITH  Classified  Index  and  Index  to  Authors 


'  Persuasion  sat  upon  his  lips."  —  Eupolis  on  Pericles. 


Copyright,  i8<)o,  bv  H.  Holt  &  Co. 

CopVKKiHT,   1894,  HV  Arthur  Hinds  &  Co. 

Copyright,  1899,  uy  Hinds  &  Noble. 


HINUS  &  NOBLE,  Publishers 
4-5-6-12-13-14  Cooper  Institute  New  York  City 

Schoolbooks  0/  all  publisliers  at  one  store 


>  1 1  ' 


PREFACE  TO  REVISED  EDITION. 


The  issue  of  a  revised  edition  affords  the  pub- 
lishers an  opportunity  to  express  their  grateful 
appreciation  of  the  cordial  reception  accorded  this 
book,  by  which  it  appears  that  the  volume  contains 
just  what  college  students  have  been  calling  for  but 
could  not  find, — live  topics  presented  by  live  men, 
addresses  full  of  new  vitality  for  prize  speaking,  and 
other  matter  of  an  up-to-date  quality. 

It  is  therefore  with  a  confidence  born  of  the 
approval  of  many  new  aquaintances,  that  in  a  revised 
edition  we  submit  to  the  judgment  of  a  still  larger 
audience  this  volume  including  in  its  personnel, 
among  hundreds  of  others,  the  familiar  names  of 
Chauncey  M.  Depew,  Abram  S.  Hewitt,  Carl  Schurz, 
William  E.  Gladstone,  Edward  J.  Phelps,  Benjamin 
Harrison.  Grover  Cleveland,  General  Horace  Porter, 
Doctor  Storrs,  President  Eliot  (Harvard),  George 
Parsons  Lathrop,  Bishop  Potter,  Sir  Charles  Russell, 
President  Carter  (Williams)^  T.  DeWitt  Taln.ige, 
Ex  Pres.  White  (Cornell),  Rev.  Newman  Smyth, 
Emilio  Castelar,  George  William  Cuitis,  Lowell, 
Blaine,  Phillips  Brooks,  Beecher,  Garfield,  Disraeli, 
Bryant,  Grady,  Choate,  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Tenny- 
son, Byron,  Whittier,  Schiller,  Shelley,  Hood. 

HARRY   CASSELL   DAVIS. 
WiLKESBARRE,  Pa.,  February,  1S99. 


ctcict'i".'  tl  tic''  l''  11<.C.>ICC 

ititcc^ti^^-'t  (It  It  '  tccttccc 

c         tttctct  It         It  t         t*t        t        tcctc 


t-c 


t  tt       t  t  tltt 

ccctt  '.,  t           t        tt 

tt-ttctt  t'^J  c            ttt 

I      '.'        '     t   ,     t        r    ,    t  t       ,      t           '  ^                .          t    .     1 


4  2.0  I 

s 

M 


PREFACE. 


This  volume  has  been  prepared  with  a  view  ot 
bringing  together  pieces  that  are  generally  new,  brief, 
and  suitable  for  speaking. 

While  a  number  of  the  "  old  favorites  "  have  been 
retained  because  of  their  acknowledged  merit  as 
models  for  declamation,  the  endeavor  has  been  to 
impress  upon  the  book  a  modern  aspect. 

Pieces  should  be  brought  within  a  three-minute 
limit.  It  is  best  to  concentrate  effort  upon  a  few 
lines.  They  will  be  better  learned,  better  spoken, 
and  better  listened  to. 

The  opportunities  of  youth  for  committing  to  mem- 
ory are  golden.  Therefore,  the  aim  in  such  a  book 
should  be  to  put  before  the  pupil  a  varied  collection 
that  will  enrich  the  memory,  form  the  taste,  and  afford 
after-service  and  delight. 

An  attempt  has  been  made,  so  far  as  possible,  to 
give  the  dates  of  the  birth  and  death  of  authors, 
with  an  indication  of  their  principal  pursuits  and 
places  of  residence.  Fullness  was  of  course  more 
practicable  in  some  cases  than  in  others. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  kindness 
of  those  who  have  responded  to  requests  for  selections 
from   their   own  speeches  or   writings,  and    also  the 

iii 


^GiJObl 


iv  PREFACE. 

courtesy  of  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Company,  D.  Lothrop  Company,  Perry 
Mason  &  Company,  Gebbie  &  Company,  Dodd,Mead 
&  Company,  and  the  Century  Company  in  allowing  us 
to  use  certain  matter  from  their  publications. 

To  those  friends  whose  aid  and  suggestion  have 
been  a  constant  encouragement  and  guide  must  be 
largely  attributed  whatever  success  may  attend  the 
work. 

Wjlkesbarre   Pa..  Tune  zt;,  loqo. 


BRIEF   DECLAMATIONS. 


THE  TWO  SPIES,  ANDRE  AND  HALE. 

By  Chauncey  Mitchell  Depew,  Lawyer,  Orator,  Railroad 
President.     B.  1834,  New  York. 

Extract  from  an  oration  delivered  September  23,  1880,  at  the 
Centennial  Celebration  of  the  capture  of  Major  Andre,  at  Tarry- 
town,  N.  Y. 

Andre's  story  is  the  one  overmastering  romance  of 
the  Revolution.  American  and  English  literature  is 
full  of  eloquence  and  poetry  in  tribute  to  his  memory 
and  sympathy  for  his  fate.  After  the  lapse  of  a  hun- 
dred years  there  is  no  abatement  of  absorbing  inter- 
est. What  had  this  young  man  done  to  merit  immor- 
tality ?  The  mission,  whose  tragic  issue  lifted  him 
out  of  the  oblivion  of  other  minor  British  officers,  in 
its  inception  was  free  from  peril  or  daring,  and  its 
objects  and  purposes  were  utterly  infamous.  Had  he 
succeeded  by  the  desecration  of  the  honorable  uses  of 
passes  and  flags  of  truce,  his  name  would  have  been 
held  in  everlasting  execration.  In  his  failure,  the 
infant  Republic  escaped  the  dagger  with  which  he 
was  feeling  for  its  heart,  and  the  crime  was  drowned 
in  tears  for  his  untimely  end.  His  youth  and  beauty, 
his  skill  with  pen  and   pencil,  the  brightness  of  his 

2 


2  THE    TWO   SPIES,    ANDR&  AND  HALE. 

life,  the  calm  courage  in  the  gloom  of  his  death,  his 
early  love  and  disappointment,  surrounded  him  with  a 
halo  of  poetry  and  pity  which  have  secured  for  him 
what  he  most  sought  and  could  never  have  won  in  bat- 
tles and  sieges — a  fame  and  recognition  which  have 
outlived  that  of  all  the  generals  under  whom  he  served. 
Are  kings  only  grateful,  and  do  republics  forget  ? 
Is  fame  a  travesty,  and  the  judgment  of  mankind  a 
farce  ?  America  had  a  parallel  case  in  Captain 
Nathan  Hale.  Of  the  same  age  as  Andre,  he  gradua- 
ted at  Yale  College  with  high  honors,  enlisted  in  the 
patriot  cause  at  the  beginning  of  the  contest,  and 
secured  the  love  and  confidence  of  all  about  him. 
When  none  else  would  go  upon  a  most  important  and 
perilous  mission  he  volunteered,  and  was  captured  by 
the  British.  While  Andre  received  every  kindness, 
courtesy,  and  attention,  and  was  fed  from  Washing- 
ton's table.  Hale  was  thrust  into  a  noisome  dungeon 
in  the  sugar-house.  While  Andre  was  tried  by  a 
board  of  officers  and  had  ample  time  and  every 
facility  for  defense.  Hale  was  summarily  ordered  to 
execution  the  next  morning.  While  Andre's  last 
wishes  and  behests  were  sacredly  followed,  the  infa- 
mous Cunningham  tore  from  Hale  his  cherished  Bible 
and  destroyed  before  his  eyes  his  last  letters  to  his 
mother  and  sister,  and  asked  him  what  he  had  to  say. 
"  All  T  have  to  say,"  was  his  reply,  "  is,  I  regret  I 
have  but  one  life  to  lose  for  my  country."  His  death 
was  concealed  for  months,  because  Cunningham  said 
he  did  not  want  the  rebels  to  know  they  had  a  man 
who  could   die  so   bravely.     And   yet,  while   Andrd 


STA  VOREN.  3 

rests  in  that  grandest  of  mausoleums,  where  the 
proudest  of  nations  garners  the  remains  and  perpetu- 
ates the  memories  of  its  most  eminent  and  honored 
children,  the  name  and  deeds  of  Nathan  Hale  have 
passed  into  oblivion,  and  only  a  simple  tomb  in  a  vil- 
lage  church-yard  marks  his  resting-place.  The  dying 
declarations  of  Andre  and  Hale  express  the  anima- 
ting spirit  of  their  several  armies,  and  teach  why,  with 
all  her  power,  England  could  not  conquer  America. 
*'  I  call  upon  you  to  witness  that  I  die  like  a  brave 
man,"  said  Andre,  and  he  spoke  from  British  and 
Hessian  surroundings,  seeking  only  glory  and  pay. 
"I  regret  I  have  but  one  life  to  lose  for  my  country," 
said  Hale  ;  and  with  him  and  his  comrades  self  was  for- 
gotten in  that  absorbing,  passionate  patriotism  which 
pledges  fortune,  honor,  and  life  to  the  sacred  cause. 


STAVOREN.* 

By  Helen  Stevens  CoNANT,  Author.     B.  1839,  Massachusetts. 

Stavoren  is  situated  on  the  northern  shore  of  the  entrance  to 
the  Zuyder  Zee.  From  the  fourth  to  the  thirteenth  century  it 
was  a  famous  seaport.  Then  it  l)egan  to  decay,  a  huge  sand-bar 
gradually  forming  in  front  of  the  harbor.  At  the  present  day 
only  a  few  huts  mark  the  site  of  the  once  magnificent  city. 
The  sand-bar  is  known  as  the  "  Lady's  Bank,"  and  peasants 
tell  this  legend  of  the  wrong-doing  of  a  proud  and  wicked  queen. 

****** 
Upon   the   shores  of    Zuyder   Zee,  where   lands  are 

broad  and  low, 
There  stood  a  proud   and   stately  town    in  centuries 

long  ago  ; 

♦From  Harper  s  Voung-  Peop/e,—Co\>y  right  ii88,  Harper  &  Brothers. 


4  STA  VOREN. 

Stavoren  was  its  name,  and  there   the  burghers  saw 

with  pride 
The  great  ships  as   they  came   and   went  upon   the 

flowing  tide — 

Ships  from  the  Indies  far  away,  with  freight  of  spice 

and  gold 
For  the  burghers  of  Stavoren,  the  men  of  wealth  untold. 
But  rich  and  proud  above  them  all  was  a  maid  of  high 

degree, 
Who  owned  a  hundred  mighty  ships  that  sailed  on 

every  sea. 

A  stately  palace  was  her  home,  with  floors  inlaid  with 

gold. 
And  many    wondrous   stories  of  her  treasure    heaps 

were  told  ; 
No  queen  in  greater  splendor  dwelt,  and  many  jewels 

rare 
Upon  her  raiment  glittered,  and  in  her  golden  hair. 

One  day  the  captain  of  her  fleet,  a  skipper  gray  and  wise, 

She  called  to  her,  and  spake  to  him,  with  cruel  glis- 
tening eyes  : 

"  Go,  weigh  thy  anchor,  sail  away  !  This  task  I  lay 
on  thee, 

To  seek  and  bring  to  port  the  best  contained  in  land 
or  sea." 


The  skipper  spread  his  glistening  sails,  but  sore  per- 
plexed was  he 


STA  VOREN.  5 

To  know  what  was  the  best  of  all  contained  in  land 

or  sea  ; 
But  suddenly   it   came  to  him,  as  the  ship   ploughed 

through  the  main, 
That  the   noblest  thing   in   all   the   earth  was  God'r 

own  gift  of  grain. 

And  anchoring  in  a  distant  port,  he  found  the  people 

there 
Rejoicing  with  festivities  about  the  harvest  fair  ; 
So  golden,  rich,  and  goodly  was  never  grain  before. 
He   loaded  with  the  precious  freight,  and  homeward 

sailed  once  more. 

And  when  he  reached  Stavoren,  and   stood  again  on 

shore. 
He  hastened  to  the  palace  to  report  his  noble  store. 
But  pale  with  rage  his  mistress  grew.     "  How  dar'st 

thou,  wretch,"  she  said, 
"  To  bring  to    me  miserable  grain,  from  which  the 

poor  make  bread  ?" 

Then  to  her  trembling  servants  she  gave  tlys  stern 

command  : 
"  Go,  cast  the  grain   into  the  sea  ;   and  I  myself  will 

stand, 
To  watch  and  see  the  work  well  done,  down  by  the 

water's  side, 
And  joy  to  see  the  rubbish  float  upon  the  ebbing  tide." 

The  news  flew  forth.     From  every  side  the  poor  came 
crowding  there 


6  ST  A  VOREN. 

To  beg  this  haughty  maiden  the  precious  grain   to 

spare. 
"  Our  suffering  Httle  ones,"  they  cried,  "  they  die  for 

lack  of  bread  ; 
For  Christ's  sake,  lady,  hear  us,  that  our  children  may 

be  fed ! " 

She  laughed  a  laugh  of  cruel  scorn,  as  the  grain  fell 

in  the  sea, 
When   before  her   stood  the  skipper,  and  pale  with 

wrath  was  he. 
He   raised   his  hand  :    "  O   woman,  not  a  year  shall 

pass  before 
Through  this  proud  city  thou    shalt  beg  thy   bread 

from  door  to  door." 

A  ring  she  from  her  finger  drew  and  cast  it  in  the  sea. 
^*  My  riches  shall  endure,"  she  cried,  "  till  that  comes 

back  to  me." 
That  very  night  a  fisher  laid  the  ring  within  her  hand  ; 
That  very  night  her  ships  were  strewn  in  pieces  on  the 

strand. 

And  day  by  day  quick  messengers  arrived  from  far 

and  near 
With  news  of  sore  disasters,  which  she  grew  pale  to 

hear. 
Her  riches  flew  like  drifting  sand  before  the  desert's 

blast  : 
She  stood  a  beggar  in  the  street  before  a  year  had 

passed. 


FINNIGIN  TO  FLANNIGIN. 

FINNIGIN   TO    FLANNIGIN. 

By  S.  W.  Gillian.     Reprinted  from  "  Life.'  = 

SUPERINTINDINT  wuz  Flannigiii; 
Boss  av  the  siction  was  Finnigin ; 
Whiniver  the  kyars  got  offen  the  thrack 
An'  muddle  up  things  t'  th'  divil  an'  back, 
Finnigin  writ  it  to  Flannigin, 
Afther  the  wrick  wuz  all  on  agin ; 
That  is,  this  Finnigin 
Repoorted  to  Flannigin. 

Whin  Finnigin  furst  writ  to  Flannigin, 
He  writed  tin  pages  —  did  Finnigin. 
An'  he  tould  jist  how  the  smash  occurred; 
Full  minny  a  tajus,  blunderin'  wurrd 
Did  Finnigin  write  to  Flannigin 
Afther  the  cars  had  gone  on  agin. 
That  wuz  how  Finnigin 
Repoorted  to  Flannigin. 

Now  Flannigin  knowed  more  than  Finnigin 
He'd  more  idjucation  —  had  Flannigin; 
An'  it  wore'in  clane  and  complately  out 
To  tell  what  Finnigin  writ  about 
In  his  writin'  to  Muster  Flannigin. 
So  he  writed  back  to  Finnigin; 
"Don't  do  such  a  sin  agin; 
Make  'em  brief,  Finnigin  1  " 

Whin  Finnigin  got  this  from  Flannigin 
He  blushed  rosy  red  —  did  Finnigin; 


8  THE  STRANGER'S  ALMS. 

An'  he  said:  "I'll  gamble  a  whole  month's  pa-ay 
That  it  will  be  minny  and  minny  a  da-ay 
Befoore  Sup'rintindint,  that's  Flannigin, 
Gits  a  whack  at  this  very  same  sin  agin, 
From  Finnigin  to  Flannigin 
Repoorts  won't  be  long  agin." 

Wan  da-ay  on  the  siction  av  Finnigin, 

On  the  road  sup'rintinded  by  Flannigin, 

A  rail  give  way  on  a  bit  av  a  curve 

An'  some  kyars  wint  off  as  they  made  the  swerve, 

"There's  nobody  hurted,"  sez  Finnigin, 

"  But  repoorts  must  be  made  to  Flannigin." 

An'  he  winked  at  McGoorigin, 

As  married  a  Finnigin. 

He  wuz  thinkin'  thin,  wuz  Finnigin, 

As  minny  a  railroader's  bin  agin, 

An'  the  shmoky  ol'  lamp  wuz  burnin'  bright 

In  Finnigin's  shanty  all  that  night  — 

Bilin'  down  his  repoort  wuz  Finnigin! 

An'  he  writed  this  here:  "Muster  Flannigin: 

Off  agin,  on  agin, 

Gone  agin.  —  Finnigin." 


THE   STRANGER'S    ALMS. 

By  Henry  Abbey,  Poet.     B.  1842,  New  York. 

An  incident  in  the  life  of  the  great  tenor,  Mario.  He  belonged 
to  an  aristocratic  Italian  family  and  was  admired  not  only  for  his 
exquisite  voice  but  for  his  noble  assistance  to  struggling  artists. 

In  Lyons,  on  the  mart  of  that  French  town. 
Years  since,  a  woman  leading  a  fair  child. 


THE   STRANGER'S  ALMS.  9 

Craved  a  small  alms  of  one,  who,  walking  down 
The  thoroughfare,  caught  the   child's  glance  and 
smiled 
To  see,  behind  its  eyes,  a  noble  soul  ; 
He  paused,  but  found  he  had  no  coin  to  dole. 

His  guardian  angel  warned  him  not  to  lose 

This  chance  of  pearl  to  do  another  good  ; 
So,  as  he  waited,  sorry  to  refuse 

The  asked-for  penny,  there  aside  he  stood. 
And  with  his  hat  held,  as  by  limb  the  nest, 
He  covered  his  kind  face  and  sung  his  best. 

The  sky  was  blue  above,  and  all  the  lane 

Of  commerce,  where  the  singer  stood,  was  filled, 
And  many  paused,  and  listening,  paused  again 

To  hear  the  voice  that  through  and  through  them 
thrilled. 
I  think  the  guardian  angel  helped  along 
The  cry  for  pity,  woven  in  a  song. 

***** 

The  hat  of  its  stamped  brood  was  emptied  soon 

Into  the  woman's  lap,  who  drenched  with  tears 
Her  kiss  upon  the  hand  of  help  ;  'twas  noon, 

And  noon  in  her  glad  heart  drove  forth  her  fears. 
The  singer,  pleased,  passed  on  and  softly  tho't 
"  Men  will    not   know  by  whom  this   deed    was 
wrought." 

But  when  at  night  he  came  upon  the  stage, 

Cheer  after  cheer  went  up  from  that  wide  throng, 


lo        THE    CORONATION  OF  ANNE  BOLEYN. 

And  flowers  rained  on  him  ;  naught  could  assuage 
The  tumult  of  the  welcome  save  the  song 

That  he  had  sweetly  sung,  with  covered  face, 
For  the  two  beggars  in  the  market-place. 


THE  CORONATION  OF  ANNE   BOLEYN. 

By  James  Anthony  Froude,  Historian,  Essayist,  Biographer. 
B.  1818,  England. 

Anne  Boleyn,  the  beautiful  attendant  of  Queen  Catherine  and 
afterwards  the  wife  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  was  beheaded  three 
years  after  her  coronation.  This  account  is  taken  from  the 
"  History  of  England." 

On  the  morning  of  the  31st  of  May,  the  families  of 
the  London  citizens  were  stirring  early  in  all  houses. 
From  Temple  Bar  to  the  Tower,  the  streets  were  fresh 
strewed  with  gravel.  Cornhill  and  Gracechurch  Street 
had  dressed  their  fronts  in  scarlet  and  crimson,  in 
arras  and  tapestry,  and  the  rich  carpet-work  from 
Persia  and  the  East.  Cheapside,  to  outshine  her 
rivals,  was  draped  even  more  splendidly  in  cloth  of 
gold,  and  tissue  and  velvet. 

The  sheriffs  were  pacing  up  and  down  on  their 
great  Flemish  horses  hung  with  liveries,  and  all  the 
windows  were  thronged  with  ladies  crowding  to  see 
the  procession  pass.  At  length  the  Tower  guns 
opened,  the  grim  gates  rolled  back,  and  under  the 
archway,  in  the  bright  May  sunshine,  the  long  column 
began  slowly  to  defile. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  picture  to  ourselves  the 
blazing  trail  of  splendor  which  in  such  a  pageant  must 
have  drawn  along  the  London  streets. — those  streets 


THE   CORONA  TION  OF  ANNE   BOLE  YN.        1 1 

which  now  we  know  so  black  and  grimed,  themselves 
then  radiant  with  masses  of  color, — gold,  and  crimson, 
and  violet.  Yet  there  it  was,  and  there  the  sun  could 
shine  upon  it,  and  tens  of  thousands  of  eyes  were 
gazing  on  the  scene  out  of  the  crowded  lattices. 
*  ****** 

Glorious  as  the  spectacle  was,  perhaps,  however,  it 
passed  unheeded.  Those  eyes  were  watching  all  for 
another  object,  which  now  drew  near.  In  an  open 
space  behind  the  constable  there  was  seen  approach- 
ing "a  white  chariot,"  drawn  by  two  palfreys  in  white 
damask,  which  swept  the  ground,  a  golden  canopy 
borne  above  it  making  music  with  silver  bells ;  and  in 
the  chariot  sat  the  observed  of  all  observers,  the  beau- 
tiful occasion  of  all  this  glittering  homage  ;  fortune's 
plaything  of  the  hour,  the  Queen  of  England — queen 
at  last — borne  along  upon  the  waves  of  this  sea  of 
glory,  breathing  the  perfumed  incense  of  greatness 
which  she  had  risked  her  fair  name,  her  delicacy,  her 
honor,  her  self-respect,  to  win  ;  and  she  had  won  it. 

There  she  sat,  dressed  in  white  tissue  robes,  her 
fair  hair  flowing  loose  over  her  shoulders,  and  her 
temples  circled  with  a  light  coronet  of  gold  and  dia- 
monds— most  beautiful — loveliest — most  favored,  per- 
haps, as  she  seemed  at  that  hour,  of  all  England's 
daughters. 

Fatal  gift  of  greatness  !  so  dangerous  ever  !  so 
more  than  dangerous  in  those  tremendous  times  when 
the  fountains  are  broken  loose  of  the  great  deeps  of 
thought ;  and  nations  are  in  the  throes  of  revolution, — 
when  ancient  order  and  law  and  tradition  are  splitting 


12  DEATH  OF  CHARLES    THE  FIRST. 

in  the  social  earthquake  ;  and  as  the  opposing  forces 
wrestle  to  and  fro,  those  unhappy  ones  who  stand  out 
above  the  crowd  become  the  symbols  of  the  struggle, 
and  fall  the  victims  of  its  alternating  fortunes. 

H*  ^  T*  T^  •!!  TT  Vf 

Three  short  years  have  yet  to  pass,  and  again  on  a 
summer  morning,  Queen  Anne  Boleyn  will  leave  the 
Tower  of  London, — not  radiant  then  with  beauty  on 
a  gay  errand  of  coronation,  but  a  poor,  wandering 
ghost,  on  a  sad,  tragic  errand,  from  which  she  will 
never  more  return,  passing  away  out  of  earth  where 
she  may  stay  no  longer,  into  a  Presence  where,  never- 
theless, we  know  that  all  is  well,  for  all  of  us,  and 
therefore  for  her. 


CROMWELL  ON   THE  DEATH  OF  CHARLES 

THE  FIRST. 

By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  is^ovelist,  Statesman.  B. 
1805,  England  ;  d.  1873. 

Charles  the  First,  King  of  England,  was  condemned  to  death 
by  a  special  Court  appointed  by  the  Rump  Parliament,  and  was 
beheaded  on  the  20th  of  January,  1649. 

By  what  law  fell  King  Charles?     By  all  the  laws 
He  left  us  !     And  I,  Cromwell,  here  proclaim  it. 
Sirs,  let  us,  with  a  calm  and  sober  eye, 
Look  on  the  spectre  of  this  ghastly  deed. 
Who  spills  man's  blood,  his  shall  by  man  be  shed  ! 
'Tis  Heaven's  first  law  ;  to  that  law  we  had  come, — 
None  other  left  us.     Who,  then,  caused  the  strife 
That  crimsoned  Naseby's  field,  and  Marston's  moor? 
It  was  the  Stuart ; — so  the  Stuart  fell  ! 


DEATH  OF  CHARLES    THE  FIRST.  13 

A  victim,  in  the  pit  himself  had  digged  ! 

He  died  not,  Sirs,  as  hated  Kings  have  died, 

In  secret  and  in  shade, — no  eye  to  trace 

The  one  step  from  their  prison  to  their  pall ; 

He  died  i'  the  eyes  of  Europe, — in  the  face 

Of  the  broad  Heaven  ;  amidst  the  sons  of  England, 

Whom  he  had  outraged  ;  by  a  solemn  sentence. 

Passed  by  a  solemn  Court.     Does  this  seem  guilt  ? 

You  pity  Charles  !  'tis  well  ;  but  pity  more 

The  tens  of  thousand  honest,  humble  men. 

Who,  by  the  tyranny  of  Charles  compelled 

To  draw  the  sword,  fell  butchered  in  the  field  ! 

Good  Lord  !  when  one  man  dies  who  wears  a  crown. 

How  the  earth  trembles, —  how  the  nations  gape. 

Amazed  and  awed  !  —  but  when  that  one  man's  victims, 

Poor  worms,  unclothed  in  purple,  daily  die, 

•JC  ^  S)C  ^  SfC  S|( 

Ye  pitying  souls 
Drop  not  one  tear  from  your  indifferent  eyes  ! 

He  would  have  stretciied  his  will 
O'er  the  unlimited  empire  of  men's  souls. 
Fettered  the  Earth's  pure  air, — for  freedom  is 
That  air,  to  honest  lips, — and  here  he  lies, 
In  dust  most  eloquent,  to  after  time 
A  never-silent  oracle  for  Kings  ! 
\Vas  this  the  hand  that  strained  within  its  grasp 
So  haught  a  sceptre  ? — this  the  shape  that  wore 
Majesty  like  a  garment  ?     Spurn  that  clay, — 
It  can  resent  not ;  speak  of  royal  crimes, 
And  it  can  frown  not ; — schemeless  lies  the  brain 
Whose  thoughts  were  sources  of  such  fearful  deeds. 


14  THE  INSPIRATION  OF  SACRIFICE. 

What  things  are  we,  O  Lord,  when,  at  thy  will, 
A  worm  like  this  could  shake  the  mighty  world  ! 

A  few  years  since,  and  in  the  port  was  moored 
A  bark  to  far  Columbia's  forests  bound  ; 
And  I  was  one  of  those  indignant  hearts 
Panting  for  exile  in  the  thirst  for  freedom. 
Then,  that  pale  clay  (poor  clay,  that  was  a  King  !) 
Forbade  my  parting,  in  the  wanton  pride 
Of  vain  command,  and  with  a  fated  sceptre 
Waved  back  the  shadow  of  the  death  to  come. 
Here  stands  that  baffled  and  forbidden  wanderer, 
Loftiest  amid  the  wrecks  of  ruined  empire. 
Beside  the  coffin  of  a  headless  King  ! 
He  thralled  my  fate, — I  have  prepared  his  doom  ; — 
He  made  me  captive, — lo  !  his  narrow  cell  ! 
So  hands  unseen  do  fashion  forth  the  earth 
Of  our  frail  schemes  into  our  funeral  urns  ; 
So,  walking  dream-like  in  Life's  sleep,  our  steps 
Move  blindfold  to  the  scaffold  or  the  Throne  ! 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  SACRIFICE. 

By  James  Abram  Garfield,  Statesman,  President  of  the 
United  States.     B.  1831,  Ohio;   d.  1881,  New  Jersey. 

The  oration  containing  this  extract  was  delivered  at  Arlington, 
Va.,  May  30,  1868  on  the  occasion  of  "  Memorial  Day"  exercises. 

I  LOVE  to  believe  that  no  heroic  sacrifice  is  ever 
lost.  That  the  characters  of  men  are  molded  and 
inspired  by  what  their  fathers  have  done  —  that  treas- 
ured up  in  American  souls,  are  all  the  unconscious 
influences  of  the  great  deeds  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 


THE  INSPIRATIOI^  OF  SACRIFICE.  15 

from  Agincourt  to  Bunker  Hill.  It  was  such  an  influ- 
ence which  led  a  young  Greek,  two  thousand  years 
ago,  wlien  he  heard  the  news  of  Marathon,  to  exclaim, 
"The  trophies  of  Miltiades  will  not  let  him  sleep." 
Could  these  men  be  silent  in  1861 — these,  whose 
ancestors  had  felt  the  inspiration  of  battle  on  every 
field  where  civilization  had  fought  in  the  last  thousand 
years  ?    Read  their  answer  in  this  green  turf. 

With  such  inspiration,  failure  was  impossible.  The 
struggle  consecrated,  in  some  degree,  every  man  who 
bore  a  worthy  part.  I  can  never  forget  an  incident, 
illustrative  of  this  thought,  which  it  was  my  fortune 
to  witness  near  sunset  of  the  second  day  at  Chicka- 
mauga,  when  the  beleaguered  but  unbroken  left  wing 
of  our  army  had  again  and  again  repelled  the  assaults 
of  more  than  double  their  number,  and  when  each  sol- 
dier felt  that  to  his  individual  hands  were  committed 
the  life  of  the  army  and  the  honor  of  his  country.  It 
was  just  after  a  division  had  fired  its  last  cartridge, 
and  had  repelled  a  charge  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet, 
that  the  great-hearted  commander  took  the  hand  of 
an  humble  soldier  and  thanked  him  for  his  steadfast 
courage.  The  soldier  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  "George  H.Thomas  has  taken  this  hand  in 
his.  I'll  knock  down  any  mean  man  that  offers  to  take 
it  hereafter."  This  rough  sentence  was  full  of  mean- 
ing. He  felt  that  something  had  happened  to  his  hand 
which  consecrated  it.  Could  a  hand  bear  our  banner 
in  battle  and  not  be  forever  consecrated  to  honor 
and  virtue  ?  But  doubly  consecrated  were  those  who 
received  into  their  own   hearts  the  fatal  shafts,  aimed 


1 6  ANCESTRAL  IDEALS. 

at  the  life  of  their  country.  Fortunate  men  !  your 
country  Hves  because  you  died  !  Your  fame  is  placed 
where  the  breath  of  calumny  can  never  reach  it ; 
where  the  mistakes  of  a  weary  life  can  never  dim  its 
brightness  !  Coming  generations  will  rise  up  to  call 
you  blessed  !  

ANCESTRAL   IDEALS. 

By  Henry  Jackson  Van  Dyke,  Clergyman,  Author.  B.  1852, 
New  York;    resides  in  New  York  City. 

The  speech  from  which  this  extract  is  taken  was  given  at  the 
annual  dinner  of  The  New  England  Society  of  Philadelphia,  De- 
cember 22,  1898,  in  response  to  the  toast,  "Ancestral  Ideals  — 
Yankee,   Dutch,   and  Cavalier." 

On  the  whole,  with  few  exceptions  which  have  turned 
out  disastrously  until  rectified,  by  giving  freedom  to  the 
slave  and  opening  citizens'  rights  to  the  Indian  —  on 
the  whole,  America  has  followed  her  ancestral  ideal 
of  republican  government  with  marvelous  fidelity,  and 
still  more  marvelous  success.  Without  militarism  she 
has  made  her  power  felt  around  the  globe.  Without 
colonies  she  has  outstripped  all  colonial  empires  in  the 
growth  of  her  export  trade.  Without  conquering  vas- 
sels  or  annexing  tributaries  she  has  expanded  her  popu- 
lation from  three  million  to  seventy-five  million,  and 
welcomed  a  score  of  races  into  her  capacious  bosom, 
not  to  subjugate  them,  but  to  transform  them  into  Amer- 
icans. Glory  to  the  ideal  of  a  new  nation,  "conceived 
in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men 
are  created  equal !  "  Glory  has  come  to  it  for  a  hun- 
dred years.  Glory  still  waits  for  it.  It  is  to-day  the 
most  potent  and  prosperous  ideal  in  all  the  world.     All 


ANCESTRAL   IDEALS.  i/ 

that  this  countr}'  needs  is  to  be  true  to  her  own  ideal, 
and  so  to  lead  mankind.  But  this  last  ideal  which 
reaches  forward  into  the  long  future  —  the  ideal  of  na- 
tional glory  and  grandeur  —  is  it  indeed  ancestral  ? 
Did  the  fathers  cherish  it  and  dream  of  it? 

There  are  those  who  tell  us  that  their  eyes  were  not 
opened  to  behold  this  vision.  We  are  asked  to  believe 
that  they  were  short-sighted  in  regard  to  the  greatness 
of  America ;  and  therefore  their  counsels  are  inapplic- 
able to  the  days  of  our  prosperity.  I  do  not  believe  it. 
The  representative  of  Spain  at  Paris  in  1783,  Count 
Aranda,  said  :  "  This  Federal  Republic  is  born  a  pigmy. 
The  day  will  come  when  it  will  be  a  giant,  a  Colossus, 
formidable  even  in  these  countries.  Liberty  of  con- 
science, the  facility  for  establishing  a  new  population  on 
immense  lands,  as  well  as  the  advantages  of  a  new  gov- 
ernment, will  draw  thither  farmers  and  artisans  from 
all  the  nations."  That  was  a  vision  of  jealousy  and 
fear.  Do  you  believe  that  the  eyes  of  our  ancestors 
were  too  blind  to  behold  that  vision  in  joy  and  hope  ? 
Nay,  they  saw  it,  and  they  saw  also  how  it  was  to  be 
attained.  Not  on  the  old  plan  of  the  Roman  empire, 
annexation  without  incorporation,  but  on  the  new  plan 
of  the  American  Republic,  —  liberation,  population, 
education,  assimilation.  Turn  back  to  the  letter  which 
Washington  wrote  to  the  Earl  of  Buchan. 

"  It  is  my  sincere  wish  that  united  America  shall  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  political  intrigues  or  the  squab- 
bles of  European  nations.  To  administer  justice,  and 
receive  it  from  every  power  with  whom  they  are  con- 
nected, will  I  hope,  be  always  found  the  most  prominent 


1 8  ANCESTRAL    IDEALS. 

feature  of  the  administration  of  this  country,  and  I  flat- 
ter myself  that  nothing  short  of  imperious  necessity 
can  ever  occasion  a  breach  with  any  of  them, 

"  Under  such  a  system,  if  we  are  allowed  to  pursue 
it,  the  wealth  of  these  United  States,  the  agriculture 
and  the  mechanic  arts  and  its  population  will  increase 
with  that  degree  of  rapidity  as  to  baffle  all  calculation, 
and  must  surpass  any  idea  your  Lordship  can  hitherto 
have  entertained." 

Turn  back  to  those  noble  words  of  the  Farewell 
Address  in  which  the  Father  of  Our  Country  said  ;  "  It 
will  be  worthy  of  a  free,  enlightened,  and,  at  no  distant 
period,  a  great  nation  to  give  to  mankind  the  magnani- 
mous and  too  novel  example  of  a  people  always  guided 
by  an  exalted  justice  and  benevolence."  This  is  our  an- 
cestral ideal  of  national  glory  and  grandeur.  Not  mili- 
tary conquest,  but  worldwide  influence.  Not  colonies 
in  both  hemispheres,  but  friends,  admirers,  and  imitators 
around  the  globe.  Democracy  can  never  be  extended 
by  force,  as  you  would  fling  a  net  over  a  bird.  But, 
give  it  a  fair  chance  and  it  will  grow  as  a  tree  grows, 
by  sending  down  its  roots  into  the  heart  of  huminity 
and  lifting  its  top  toward  the  light,  and  spreading  its 
arms  wider  and  wider,  until  all  the  persecuted  flocks 
of  Heaven  find  refuge  beneath  its  peaceful,  protecting 
shade. 

These,  gentlemen,  are  the  ancestral  ideals  that  have 
been  the  strength  and  prosperity  of  Americans  during 
the  nineteenth  century.  Will  they  endure  through  the 
twentieth  century  ?  Pray  God  they  may.  But  who  can 
tell  ?     Men  often  forget  and  sometimes  change  their 


AN  APPEAL    TO    THE   PEOPLE.  19 

ideals.  But  this  we  know  :  If  the  ideal  of  just  govern- 
ment, as  based  on  the  consent  of  the  governed,  is  modi- 
fied ;  if  the  ideal  of  national  grandeur  as  consisting  in 
enlightenment,  rather  than  in  conquest,  is  obscured, 
then  our  last  hope  will  be  in  the  survival  of  the  third 
ideal  —  American  manhood.  Then,  if  ever,  we  shall 
need  these  ancestral  societies,  not  to  search  out  vain 
jrenealogies,  but  to  remind  us  of  the  virtues  of  our  fore- 
fathers.  Then,  if  ever,  we  shall  need  men  to  imitate 
their  integrity,  their  fearlessness,  their  unselfish  devo- 
tion to  the  Commonwealth.  And,  while  we  have  such 
men,  I,  for  one,  shall  never  despair  of  the  salvation  of 
the  Republic. 

"  Land  that  we  love  !  Thou  future  of  the  world  ! 
Thou  refuge  of  the  noble  heart  oppressed ! 
Oh,  never  be  thy  shining  image  hurled 
From  its  high  place  in  the  adoring  breast 
Of  him  who  worships  thee  with  jealous  love ! 
Keep  thou  thy  starry  forehead  as  the  dove 
All  white,  and  to  the  Eternal  Dawn  inclined. 
Thou  art  not  for  thyself,  but  for  mankind, 
And  to  despair  of  thee  were  to  despair 
Of  man,  of  man's  high  destiny,  of  God." 


AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  PEOPLE. 

Hy  John  Bkigiit,  Orator,  Statesman.      15.    iSii,  England;    d. 
1889,   England. 

Our  opponents  have  charged  us  with  being  the  pro- 
moters  of  a  dangerous   excitement.     They   have    tlu- 


20  AN  APPEAL    TO    THE  PEOPLE. 

effrontery  to  say  that  I  am  the  friend  of  pubUc  dis- 
order. I  am  one  of  the  people.  Surely,  if  there  be 
one  thing  in  a  free  country  more  clear  than  another,  it 
is,  that  any  one  of  the  people  may  speak  openly  to  the 
people.  If  I  speak  to  the  people  of  their  rights,  and 
indicate  to  them  the  way  to  secure  them, — if  I  speak 
of  their  danger  to  the  monopolists  of  power, — am  I 
not  a  wise  counsellor,  both  to  the  people  and  to  their 
rulers  ? 

Suppose  I  stood  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius,  or  Etna, 
and,  seeing  a  hamlet  or  a  homestead  planted  on  its 
slope,  I  said  to  the  dwellers  in  that  hamlet,  or  in  that 
homestead,  "  You  see  that  vapor  which  ascends  from 
the  summit  of  the  mountain.  That  vapor  may  become 
a  dense,  black  smoke,  that  will  obscure  the  sky.  You 
see  the  trickling  of  lava  from  the  crevices  in  the  side 
of  the  mountain.  That  trickling  of  lava  may  become 
a  river  of  fire.  You  hear  that  muttering  in  the  bow- 
els of  the  mountain.  That  muttering  may  become  a 
bellowing  thunder,  the  voice  of  a  violent  convulsion, 
that  may  shake  half  a  continent.  You  know  that  at 
your  feet  is  the  grave  of  great  cities,  for  which  there 
is  no  resurrection,  as  histories  tell  us  that  dynasties 
and  aristocracies  have  passed  away,  and  their  names 
have  been  known  no  more  forever." 

If  I  say  this  to  the  dwellers  upon  the  slope  of  the 
mountain,  and  if  there  comes  hereafter  a  catastrophe 
which  makes  the  world  to  shudder,  am  I  responsible 
for  that  catastrophe  ?  I  did  not  build  the  mountain, 
or  fill  it  with  explosive  materials.  I  merely  warned 
the  men  that  were  in  danger.     So,  now,  it  is  not  I  who 


KEENAN'S   CHARGE.  21 

am  stimulating   men  to  the  violent  pursuit  of  their 
acknowledged  constitutional  rights. 

The  class  which  has  hitherto  ruled  in  this  country 
has  failed  miserably.  It  revels  in  power  and  wealth, 
whilst  at  its  feet,  a  terrible  peril  for  its  future,  lies  the 
multitude  which  it  has  neglected.  If  a  class  has  failed, 
let  us  try  the  nation. 

That  is  our  faith,  that  is  our  purpose,  that  is  our  cry. 
Let  us  try  the  nation.  This  it  is  which  has  called 
together  these  countless  numbers  of  the  people  to 
demand  a  change  ;  and  from  these  gatherings,  sub- 
lime in  their  vastness  and  their  resolution,  I  think  I 
see,  as  it  were,  above  the  hill-tops  of  time,  the  glim.- 
merings  of  the  dawn  of  a  better  and  nobler  day  for 
the  country  and  for  the  people  that  I  love  so  well. 


KEENAN'S   CHARGE. 

{Chancellorsville,  May,  1863.) 

By  George  Parsons  Lathrop,  Novelist,  Poet.  B.  1851, 
Sandwich  Islands  ;  lives  in  New  York. 

Chancellorsville,  a  village  in  the  "  Wilderness  "  of  Virginia,  was 
the  scene  of  a  severe  though  indecisive  battle  of  the  Civil  War. 
General  T.  J.  Jackson,  familiarly  known  as  "Stonewall  "  Jackson, 
a  famous  general  of  the  Confederate  Army,  was  killed  during  the 
battle 

The  sun  had  set ; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet ; 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 
On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 
Where  Stonewall's  corps,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Tore  through,  with  angry  tusk. 


22  KEENAN'S  CHARGE. 

"  They've  trapped  us,  boys  !  " 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 

With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  Rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate  : 

And  our  line  reeled  and  broke  ; 

******* 

There's  one  hope,  still, — 

Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill  ! 

"  Battery,  wheel  !  "   (mid  the  roar) 
"  Pass  pieces  ;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot  !  "  In  the  panic  dire 

A  bugle  rings  "  Trot  " — and  no  more. 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged. 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 
But  suddenly  rode  a  form 
Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm, 

With  a  stern,  commanding  shout : 
"  Align  those  guns  !  " 
(We  knew  it  was  Pleasonton's.) 

The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey. 
And  worked  with  a  will,  at  his  word  ; 
And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had  heard. 

But  ah,  the  dread  delay  ! 

"  To  wait  is  crime  ; 

O  God,  for  ten  minutes  time  !  " 

The  general  looked  around. 
There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 


KEEN  AN 'S  CHARGE.  23 

With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone — 
Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"  Major,  your  men  ?  " — 

"  Are  soldiers,  General."     "  Then, 

Charge,  Major  !  Do  your  best : 
Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost ; 
Till  my  guns  are  placed  ; — else  the  army  is  losL 

You  die  to  save  the  rest !  " 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 

Brave  Keenan  looked  in  Pleasonton's  eyes 

For  an  instant, — clear,  and  cool,  and  still  ; 

Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said  :  "  I  will." 

"  Cavalry  charge  !  "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank. 

Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath. 

Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed  ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson^ashed  ; 

Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 

\\-\  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow  ; 

And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 

Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  a  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempts  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 


24  THE   COYOTE. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ringed  with  flame  ; 

Rode  in  and  sabered  and  shot — and  fell ; 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

.ind  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

\x\  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  saber,  swung 

Round  his  head  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 

Line  after  iine,  ay,  whole  platoons, 

Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons 

By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 

And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn  ; 

As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ? — 'Tis  a  death-salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place  ;  for  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain  :  the  army  was  saved  ! 


THE  COYOTE. 

By  Samuel  Langhorne  Clemens  (Mark  Twain),  Humorist, 
Author,  Publisher.  B.  1835,  Missouri  ;  lives  in  Hartford,  Con- 
neticut. 

The  coyote  of  the  farther  deserts  is  a  long,  slim, 
sick  and  sorry-looking  skeleton  with  a  gray  wolf-skin 
stretched  over  it,  a  tolerably  bushy  tail  that  forever 
sags  down  with  a  despairing  expression  of  forsaken- 
ness and  misery,  a  furtive  and  evil  eye,  and  a  long, 
sharp  face,  with  slightly  lifted  lip  and  exposed  teeth. 


THE   COYOTE.  25 

He  has  a  general  slinking  expression  all  over.  The 
coyote  is  a  living,  breathing  allegory  of  want.  He  is 
always  hungry.  He  is  always  poor,  out  of  luck,  and 
friendless.  The  meanest  creatures  despise  him,  and 
even  the  fleas  would  desert  him  for  a  velocipede.  He 
is  so  spiritless  and  cowardly  that,  even  while  his 
exposed  teeth  are  pretending  a  threat,  the  rest  of  his 
face  is  apologizing  for  it.  .  ... 

When  he  sees  you  he  lifts  his  lip  and  lets  a  flash  of 
his  teeth  out,  and  then  turns  a  little  out  of  the  course 
he  was  pursuing,  depresses  his  head  a  bit,  and  strikes  a 
long,  soft-footed  trot  through  the  sage-brush,  glancing 
over  his  shoulder  from  time  to  time,  till  he  is  about 
out  of  easy  pistol-range,  and  then  he  stops  and  takes 
a  deliberate  survey  of  you.         .... 

But,  if  you  start  a  swift-footed  dog  after  him,  you 
will  enjoy  it  ever  so  much — especially  if  it  is  a  dog  that 
has  a  good  opinion  of  himself,  and  has  been  brought 
up  to  think  that  he  knows  something  about  speed. 
The  coyote  will  go  swinging  gently  off  on  that  deceit- 
ful trot  of  his,  and  every  little  while  he  will  smile  a 
fraudful  smile  over  his  shoulder  that  will  fill  that  dog 
entirely  full  of  encouragement  and  worldly  ambi- 
tion. ...  ..... 

All  this  time  the  dog  is  only  a  short  twenty  feet 
behind  the  coyote,  and,  to  save  the  life  of  him,  he  can 
not  understand  why  it  is  that  he  cannot  get  percep- 
tibly closer,  and  he  begins  to  get  aggravated. 

And  next  the  dog  notices  that  he  is  getting  fagged, 
and  that  the  coyote  actually  has  to  slacken  speed  a 
little,  to  keep  from  running  away  from  him.     And  then 


26  THE   OLYMPIC    CROWN. 

that  town  dog  is  mad  in  earnest,  and  he  begins  to 
strain,  and  weep,  and  swear,  and  paw  the  sand  higher 
than  ever,  and  reach  for  the  coyote  with  concentrated 
and  desperate  energy. 

This  spurt  finds  him  six  feet  behind  the  gliding 
enemy,  and  two  miles  from  his  friends.  And  then,  in 
the  instant  that  a  wild  new  hope  is  lighting  up  his 
face,  the  coyote  turns  and  smiles  blandly  upon  him 
once  more,  and  with  a  something  about  it  which  seems 
to  say  : 

"  Well,  1  shall  have  to  tear  myself  away  from  you, 
but — business  is  business,  and  it  will  not  do  for  me  to 
be  fooling  along  this  way  all  day."  And  forthwith 
there  is  a  rushing  sound,  and  the  sudden  splitting  of 
a  long  crack  through  the  atmosphere  ;  and  behold, 
that  dog  is  solitary  and  alone  in  the  midst  of  a  vast 
solitude  ! 


THE  OLYMPIC  CROWN. 

By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Novelist,  Statesman.  B. 
1805,  England  ;  d.  1S73. 

The  Olympic  Games,  one  of  the  four  great  national  festivals  of 
the  Greeks,  were  held  on  the  plain  of  Olympia,  in  Elis,  every 
fourth  year.  The  prize  was  a  simple  wreath  of  wild  olive.  This 
description  is  taken  from  "  Athens  :  its  Rise  and  Fall." 

What  chivalry  did  for  the  few,  the  Olympic  con- 
tests effected  for  the  many — they  made  a  knighthood 
of  a  people. 

If  warmed  for  a  moment  from  the  gravity  of  the 
historic  muse,  we  might  conjure  up  the  picture  of  this 
festival,    we   would    invoke    the    imagination    of   the 


THE   OLYMPIC  CROWN.  27 

reader  to  that  sacred  ground  decorated  with  the  pro- 
fusest  triumphs  of  Grecian  art — all  Greece  assembled 
from  her  continent,  her  colonies,  her  isles — war  sus- 
pended— the  Spartan  no  longer  grave,  the 

Athenian  forgetful  of  the  forum.         .  .  . 

See  every  eye  turned  from  the  combatants  to  one 
majestic  figure — hear  every  lip  murmuring  a  single 

name — glorious   in  greater  fields Who   is  the 

spectacle  of  the  day  ?  Themistocles,  the  conqueror 
of  -Salamis,  and  the  savior  of  Greece  !  Again — 
the  huzzas  of  countless  thousands  following  the 
chariot-wheels  of  the  competitors — whose  name  is 
shouted  forth,  the  victor  without  a  rival  ? — it  is 
Alcibiades,  the  destroyer  of  Athens  !  Turn  to  the 
temple  of  the  Olympian  god,  pass  the  brazen  gates, 
proceed  through  the  columned  aisles,  what  arrests 
the  awe  and  wonder  of  the  crowd  ?  Seated  on  a 
throne  of  ebon  and  ivory,  of  gold  and  gems,  the 
olive  crown  on  his  head — in  his  right  hand  the  statue 
of  Victory,  in  his  left,  wrought  of  all  metals,  the 
cloud-compelling  sceptre,  behold  the  colossal  master- 
piece of  Phidias,  the  Homeric  dream  embodied — 
the  majesty  of  the  Olympian  Jove  !  Enter  the  ban- 
quet-room of  the  conquerors — to  whose  verse,  hymned 
in  a  solemn  and  mighty  chorus,  bends  the  listening 
Spartan  ? — it  is  the  verse  of  the  Dorian  Pindar  !     In 

that    motley   and    glittering   space join    the 

throng,  earnest  and  breathless,  gathered  round  that 
sunburnt  traveler ; — now  drinking  in  the  wild 
account  of  Babylonian  gardens,  or  of  temples  whose 
awful   deity   no   lip    may    name — now,    with   clinched 


28  THE  MISSION   TEA   PARTY. 

hands   and   glowing  cheeks,  tracking  the  march  of 
Xerxes  along  exhausted  rivers,  and  over  bridges  thai 
spanned    the    sea — what    moves,    what    hushes    that 
mighty  audience  ?     It  is  Herodotus  reading  his  his- 
tory !........ 

And  the  prize  a  wreath  of  wild  olive  !     The  olive- 
crown  was  nothing  ! — the  shouts  of  assembled  Greece — 

the  showers  of  herbs  and  flowers — the  odes 

of  imperishable  poets — the  public  register  which  trans- 
mitted to   posterity    his    name — the    return 

home  through  a  breach   in  the  walls — the 

first  seat  in  all  public  spectacles ;  the  fame,  in  short, 
extended  to  his  native  city — bequeathed  to  his  chil- 
dren— confirmed  by  the  universal  voice  wherever  the 
Greek  civilization  spread  ; — this  was  the  true  olive- 
crown  to  the  Olympic  conqueror  ! 


THE  MISSION  TEA  PARTY.* 

By  Emma  Huntington  Nason,  Poet.     B.  1845,  Maine. 

This  incident  was  related  to  the  author  by  Dr.  William  Butler, 
an  American  missionary  in  India  during-  the  Sepoy  Rebellion  in 
1857.  The  event  occurred  when  Havelock's  Brigade  had  returned 
to  Lucknow,  to  take  up  their  line  of  march  for  the  Afghan  frontier. 

The  war  in  the  East  had  ended: 

Its  terrors  were  past,  they  said  ; 
There  was  peace  once  more  for  the  living. 

And  peace  for  the  valiant  dead. 

Through  the  splendid  squares  of  Lucknow 
The  Highlanders  marched  again  ; 

*  From  Wide  Awake^  D.  Lothrop  Company. 


THE  MISSION   TEA   PARTY.  29 

The  heroes  of  fortress  and  jungle, 
Brave  Havelock's  peerless  men  ! 

Ay  !  open  your  gates,  O  Lucknow  ! 

But  measure,  ye  guards,  your  breath, 
As  ye  think  of  those  days,  an  hundred, 

When  Havelock  marched  with  death. 

They  had  freed  the  beleaguered  city, 
Fought  step  by  step  through  the  vale  ; 

And  swept  from  the  shore  of  the  Ganges 
Forever  the  Sepoy's  trail. 

Through  the  streets  swept  the  colors  of  England, 

Born  proudly  aloft  on  the  air  ; 
While  the  "  throne  land  of  Rama  "  re-echoed 

The  Christian's  thanksgiving  and  prayer. 

And  blithest  of  all  were  the  pipers, 
Their  tartan  plaids  streaming  in  pride, 

As  they  woke,  on  the  banks  of  the  Goomtee, 
The  airs  of  the  Doon  and  Clyde. 

Then  the  heart  of  one  beautiful  woman 

Was  stirred  by  an  impulse  sweet. 
As  she  thought  of  the  long,  forced  marches. 

The  weary  and  blood-stained  feet  ; 

***** 

•*  Not  for  twice  twelve  months  have  they  tasted 

A  simple  cupful  of  tea  ! 
I  will  serve  it  today  for  the  heroes 

Who  periled  their  lives  for  nic  ! 


3©  THE  MISSION    TEA    PARTY. 

"  Bid  them  come  to  the  courts  of  the  Mission  ! " 

Gay  awnings  were  hastily  hung  ; 
While  on  tripods  of  curious  fashion 

The  tea-kettles  merrily  swung  ; 

Swung  and  sung  songs  of  the  homeland  ; 

Familiar  and  sweet  were  the  tunes, 
As  if  winds  of  the  loch  and  the  mountain 

Blew  soft  through  the  Indian  noons. 

She  fastened  the  tartan  of  Scotland 
With  the  thistle-bloom  over  her  breast  ; 

And  her  own  little  winsome  daughter 
In  the  bonny  bright  plaid  she  drest. 
***** 

This  fair-faced,  brave-hearted  woman, 
A  stranger  from  lands  of  the  West, 

To  the  ancient  palace  and  gardens 
Welcomed  each  war-worn  guest. 

And  with  Highland  bonnets  uplifted, 

There  under  the  Hindoo  palm. 
The  soldiers  of  Havelock  listened 

To  the  Hebrew's  glorious  psalm  : 

"  Thou  wentest  before  thy  people. 

And  kings  of  armies  did  flee  !  " 
Then  merrily  under  the  shadows 

They  drank  of  the  fragrant  tea. 

***** 

And  many  a  battle-scarred  soldier 
Let  fall  from  a  glistening  eye 


MERCY.  31 

Hot  tears  on  the  hand  of  his  hostess 
For  whom  he  had  thought  to  die. 

And  for  her  was  the  Highlander's  blessing 
Breathed  low  in  that  tenderer  scene 

When  the  pipers,  proud  in  their  places, 
Played  grandly — "  God  save  the  Queen  !  " 


MERCY. 


By  William  Shakespeare,  Poet,  Dramatist,  Theater-manager, 
Actor.     B.   1564,  England  ;  d.   1616,  at  Stratford-upon-Avon. 

From  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  Act  IV.,  Scene  i  ;  Portia's 
reply  to  Shylock. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  ; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  ;  it  is  twice  blessed  ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest  ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 

But  mercy  is  above  the  sceptred  sway  ; 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  of  God  himself ; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore, 

Jew,  though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 

That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation  ;  we  do  pray  for  mercy  ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 

The  deeds  of  mercy. 


32  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 


MORITURI    SALUTAMUS. 

By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  Professor,  Poet.  B. 
1807,  Maine  ;  d.  1882,   Massachusetts. 

Mo7-ituri  Saluiamns —  We  who  are  to  die  salute  yoii,  (the  cry  of 
the  gladiators  to  the  emperor  before  the  conflict)  was  read  at  Bow- 
doin  College,  Maine,  upon  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  class  of 
1825,  of  which  Longfellow  was  a  member. 


And  ye  who  fill  the  places  we  once  filled, 

And  follow  in  the  furrows  that  we  tilled, 

Young  men,  whose  generous  hearts  are  beating  high, 

We  who  are  old,  and  are  about  to  die, 

Salute  you  ;  hail  you  ;  take  your  hands  in  ours. 

And  crown  with  our  welcome  as  with  flowers  ! 

How  beautiful  is  youth  !     How  bright  it  gleams 

With  its  illusions,  aspirations,  dreams  ! 

Book  of  Beginnings,  Story  without  End, 

Each  maid  a  heroine,  and  each  man,  a  friend  ! 

Aladdin's  Lamp,  and  Fortunatus'  Purse, 

That  holds  the  treasures  of  the  universe  ! 

All  possibilities  are  in  its  hands, 

No  danger  daunts  it,  and  no  foe  withstands  ; 

In  its  sublime  audacity  of  faith, 

"  Be  thou  removed  !  "  it  to  the  mountain  saith; 

And  with  ambitious  feet,  secure  and  proud. 

Ascends  the  ladder  leaning  on  the  cloud  ! 

As  ancient  Priam  at  the  Scaean  gate, 

Sat  on  the  walls  of  Troy  in  regal  state 

With  the  old  men,  too  old  and  weak  to  fight. 

Chirping  like  grasshoppers  in  their  delight 

To  see  the  embattled  hosts,  with  spear  and  shield, 


PUBLIC  OPINION.  33 

Of  Trojans,  and  Achaians  in  the  field  ; 

So  from  the  snowy  summits  of  our  years 

We  see  you  in  the  plain,  as  each  appears, 

And  question  of  you  ;  asking,  who  is  he 

That  towers  above  the  others  ?     Which  may  be 

Atreides,  Menelaus,  Odysseus, 

Ajax  the  great,  or  bold  Idomeneus  ? 

Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor  on 

As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done. 

Study  yourselves  ;  and  most  of  all  note  well 

Wherein  kind  nature  meant  you  to  excel. 

Not  every  blossom  ripens  into  fruit  ; 

Minerva,  the  inventress  of  the  flute. 

Flung  it  aside  when  she  her  face  surveyed 

Distorted  in  a  fountain  as  she  played  : 

The  unlucky  Marsyas  found  it,  and  his  fate 

Was  one  to  make  the  bravest  hesitate. 

Write  on  your  doors  the  saying  wise  and  old  : 

"  Be  bold  !  be  bold  !  "  and  everywhere—"  Be  Bold  !" 
******* 


PUBLIC  OPINION. 

By  Daniel  Webster,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1782, 
New  Hampshire  ;  lived  in  Massachusetts  after  1804  and  in 
Washington,  D.  C.  ;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

From  an  address  delivered  upon  the  subject  of  the  Greek  Revo- 
lution of  1820. 

It  may  be  asked,  perhaps  ....  what  can  we  do? 
Are  we  to  go  to  war?  Are  we  to  interfere  in  the 
Greek  cause,  or  any  other  European  cause?  Are  we 
to  endanger  our  pacific  relations? — No,  certainly  not. 


34  PUBLIC  OPINION. 

What,  then,  the  question  recurs,  remains  for  us  ?  If 
we  will  not  endanger  our  own  peace  ;  if  we  will 
neither  furnish  armies  nor  navies  to  the  cause  which 
we  think  the  just  one,  what  is  there  within  our  power  ? 
Sir,  this  reasoning  mistakes  the  age.  The  time  has 
been,  mdeed,  when  fleets,  and  armies,  and  subsidies 
were  the  principal  reliances  even  in  the  best  cause. 
But,  happily  for  mankind,  there  has  arrived  a  great 
change  in  this  respect.  Moral  causes  come  into  con- 
sideration in  proportion  as  the  progress  of  knowledge 
is  advanced  ;  and  the  public  opinioti  of  the  civilized 
world  is   rapidly  gaining  an   ascendency  over   mere 

brutal   force It  may  be   silenced   by   military 

power,  but  it  cannot  be  conquered.  It  is  elastic,  irre- 
pressible, and  invulnerable  to  the  weapons  of  ordinary 
warfare.  It  is  that  impassable,  unextinguishable 
enemy  of  mere  violence  and  arbitrary  rule  which,  like 
Milton's  angels, 

' '  Vital  in  every  part, 
Cannot,  but  by  annihilating,  die." 

Until  this  be  propitiated  or  satisfied,  it  is  vain  for 
power  to  talk  either  of  triumphs  or  of  repose.  No 
matter  what  fields  are  desolated,  what  fortresses  sur- 
rendered,  what   armies  subdued,    or  what   provinces 

overrun there  is  an  enemy  that  still  exists  to 

check  the  glory  of  these  triumphs.  It  follows  the 
conqueror  back  to  the  very  scene  of  his  ovations,  it 
calls  upon  him  to  take  notice  that  Europe,  though 
silent,  is  yet  indignant  ;  it  shows  him  that  the  sceptre 
of  his  victory  is  a  barren  sceptre  ;  that  it  shall  confer 


THE  DESTRUCTIOX   OF  POMPEII.  35 

neither  joy  nor  honor,  but  shall  molder  to  dry  ashes  in 
his  grasp.  In  the  midst  of  his  exultation  it  pierces 
his  ear  with  the  cry  of  injured  justice,  it  denounces 
against  him  the  indignation  of  an  enlightened  and 
civilized  age;  it  turns  to  bitterness  the  cup  of  his 
rejoicing,  and  wounds  him  with  the  sting  which  be- 
longs to  the  consciousness  of  having  outraged  the 
opinion  of  mankind. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  POMPEII.* 

By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lyttox,  Novelist,  Statesman.  B. 
1805,  England  ;  d.  1873. 

Pompeii,  an  Italian  city,  situated  on  the  Bay  of  Naples,  at  the 
base  of  Mount  Vesuvius,  was  destroyed  by  an  eruption  of  Vesu- 
vius in  79  A.  D.  This  description  is  taken  from  the  famous  novel, 
"  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii." 

"  Room  there  ! — stand  back  ! — give  way  !  People  of 
Pompeii,  fix  every  eye  upon  Arbace^ — there  he  sits  ! 
Room  there,  for  the  priest  Calenus  !  "  "  It  is  the 
Priest  Calenus,"  .said  the  praetor  gravely.  "  What  hast 
thou  to  say  ?"  "  Arbaces  of  Egypt  is  the  murderer  of 
Apaecides,  the  priest  of  Isis  ;  these  eyes  saw  him  deal 
the  blow.  It  is  from  the  dungeon  into  which  he 
plunged  me — it  is  from  the  darkness  and  horror  of  a 
death  by  famine — that  the  gods  have  raised  me  to  pro- 
claim his  crime !  Release  the  Athenian — he  is 
innocent  !  "  "A  miracle  !  a  miracle  !  "  shouted  the 
people  ;  "  Remove  the  Athenian  " — "  Arbaces  to  the 
lion  !  "  And  that  shout  echoed  from  hill  to  vale — 
from  coast  to  sea—"  Arbaces  to  the  lion  !  "     With  that 


•  This  narrative  has  been  condensed  to  bring  it  within  the  time  limit. 


36  THE   DESTRUCTION  OF  POMPEII. 

cry  up  sprang — on  moved — thousands  upon  thou- 
sands !  They  rushed  from  the  heights,  they  poured 
down  in  the  direction  of  the  Egyptian.  In  vain  did 
the  aedile  command — in  vain  did  the  praetor  Hft 
his  voice  and  proclaim  the  law.  The  people  had  been 
already  rendered  savage  by  the  exhibition  of  blood — 
they  thirsted  for  more — their  superstition  was  aided 
by  their  ferocity.  Aroused — inflamed  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  their  victims,  they  forgot  the  authority  of 
their  rulers.  It  was  one  of  those  dread  popular 
convulsions  common  to  crowds  wholly  ignorant, 
half  free  and  servile  ;  and  which  the  peculiar  con- 
stitution of  the  Roman  provinces  so  frequently  exhib- 
ited. The  power  of  the  praetor  was  as  a  reed  beneath 
the  whirlwind  ;  still,  at  his  word  the  guards  had  drawn 
themselves  along  the  lower  benches,  on  which  the 
upper  classes  sat  separate  from  the  vulgar.  They 
made  but  a  feeble  barrier — the  waves  of  the  human 
sea  halted  for  a  moment,  to  enable  Arbaces  to  count  the 
exact  moment  of  his  doom.  In  despair,  and  in  a  ter- 
ror which  beat  down  even  pride,  he  glanced  his  eyes 
over  the  rolling  and  rushing  crowd — when,  right 
above  them,  through  the  wide  chasm  which  had  been 
left  in  the  velaria,  he  beheld  a  strange  and  awful 
apparition — he  beheld — and  his  craft  restored  his 
courage  ! 

He  stretched  his  hand  on  high  ;  over  his  lofty 
brows  and  royal  features  there  came  an  expression  of 
unutterable  solemnity  and  command.  "  Behold  !  "  he 
shouted  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  which  stilled  the 
voice  of  the  crowd  ;  "  behold  how   the  gods  protect 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLM.  37 

the  guiltless  !  The  fires  of  the  avenging  Orcus  burst 
forth  against  the  false  witness  of  my  accusers  !  "  The 
eyes  of  the  crowd  followed  the  gesture  of  the  Egyp- 
tian, and  beheld,  with  ineffable  dismay,  a  vast  vapor 
shooting  from  the  summit  of  Vesuvius.  There  was  a 
deep,  heart-sunken  silence.  The  men  stared  at  each 
other  but  were  dumb.  An  instant  more  and  the 
mountain  cloud  seemed  to  roll  towards  them,  dark 
and  rapid  like  a  torrent. 

Darker,  larger,  mightier  spread  the  cloud  above 
them  ;  at  the  same  moment,  it  cast  forth  from  its 
bosom  a  shower  of  ashes  mixed  with  vast  fragments 
of  burning  stone  !  Over  crushing  vines, — over  the 
desolate  streets, — over  the  amphitheater  itself, — far  and 
wide, — with  many  a  mighty  splash  in  the  agitated 
sea,— fell  the  awful  shower  !  A  ghastly  Night  rush- 
ing upon  the  realm  of  Noon. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

By  James  Russell  Lowell,  Poet,  Critic,  Professor,  Minister 
to  England.     B.  1819,  Massachusetts. 

Extract  from  the  Ode  recited  at  the  Harvard  Comraemoratiop, 
July  21,  1865. 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 

And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 

As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate  ; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her. 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 

'I'o  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 


360001 


38  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  carta 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 
****** 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 

Repeating  us  by  rote  : 

For  him  her  Old-World  molds  aside  he  threw, 

And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 

With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 

Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed. 

Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead  ; 

One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clear  grained  human  worth, 

And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 

In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill. 

And  supple-tempered  will 

That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 

Trusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 

A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind  ; 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  39 

Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 
****** 

Great  captains  with  their  guns  and  drums, 

Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes  ; 

These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man. 

Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame. 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 

By  Charles  Porterfiei.d  Krauth,  Clergyman.  Educator, 
Author.     B.  1823,  West  Virginia  ;  d.  18S3,  Pennsylvania. 

Extract  from  a  paper  entitled,  "  Luther  Pictured  by  Pencil  and 
Pen." 

The  greatness  of  some  men  only  makes  us  feel  that 
though  they  did  well,  others  in  their  place  might  have 
done  just  as  they  did  :  Luther  had  that  exceptional 
greatness,  which  convinces  the  world  that  he  alone 
could  have  done  the  work.  He  was  not  a  mere 
mountain-top,  catching  a  little  earlier  the  beams 
which,  by  their  own  course,  would  soon  have  found 
the  valleys;  but  rather,  by  the  divine  ordination 
under  which  he  rose,  like  the  sun  itself,  without  which 
the  light  on  mountain  and  valley  would  have  been 
but  a  starlight  or  moonlight.  He  was  not  a  secondary 
orb,  reflecting  the  light  of  another  orb,  as  was  Melaiic- 


40  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

thon,  and  even  Calvin  ;  still  less  the  moon  of  a  planet, 
as  Bucer  or  Brentius ;  but  the  center  of  undulations 
which  filled  a  system  with  glory.  Yet,  though  he 
rose  wondrously  to  a  divine  ideal,  he  did  not  cease  to 
be  a  man  of  men.  He  won  the  trophies  of  power, 
and  the  garlands  of  affection.  Potentates  feared  him, 
and  little  children  played  with  him.  He  has  monu- 
ments in  marble  and  bronze,  medals  in  silver  and 
gold ;  but  his  noblest  monument  is  the  best  love  of 
the  best  hearts,  and  the  highest,  purest  impression  of 
his  image  has  been  left  in  the  souls  of  regenerated 
nations.  He  was  the  best  teacher  of  freedom  and  of 
loyalty.  He  made  the  righteous  throne  stronger,  and 
the  innocent  cottage  happier.  He  knew  how  to  laugh, 
and  how  to  weep  ;  therefore  millions  laughed  with  him, 
and  millions  wept  for  him.  He  was  tried  by  deep  sor- 
row, and  brilliant  fortune ;  he  begged  the  poor 
scholar's  bread,  and  from  the  Emperor  and  estates  of 
the  realm  received  an  embassy,  with  a  prince  at  its 
head,  to  ask  him  to  untie  the  knot  which  defied  the 
power  of  the  soldiers  and  the  sagacity  of  the  states- 
man. 

****** 

He  made  a  world  rich  forevermore,  and  stripping 
himself  in  perpetual  charities,  died  in  poverty.  He 
knew  how  to  command,  for  he  had  learned  how  to 
obey.  Had  he  been  less  courageous,  he  would  have 
attempted  nothing ;  had  he  been  less  cautious,  he 
would  have  ruined  all :  the  torrent  was  resistless,  but 
the  banks  were  deep.  He  tore  up  the  mightiest  evils 
by  the  root,  but  shielded  with  his  own  life  the  tender- 


THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE.  41 

est  bud  of  good  ;  he  combined  the  aggressiveness  of 
a  just  radicaUsm  with  the  moral  resistance  of  a  true 
conservatism.  Faith  inspired,  he  was  faith  inspiring. 
Great  in  act  as  he  was  great  in  thought,  proving  himself 
fire  with  fire.  Inferior  eyes  grew  great  by  his  exam- 
ple, and  put  on  the  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution. 
The  world  knows  his  faults.  He  could  not  hide  what 
he  was.  His  transparent  candor  gave  his  enemies  the 
material  for  their  misrepresentation  ;  but  they  cannot 
blame  his  infirmities  without  bearing  witness  to  the 
nobleness  which  made  him  careless  of  appearances  in 
a  world  of  defamers. 

****** 

Four  potentates  ruled  the  mind  of  Europe  in  the 
Reformation  :  the  Emperor,  Erasmus,  the  Pope,  and 
Luther.  The  Pope  wanes,  Erasmus  is  little,  the  Em- 
peror is  nothing,  but  Luther  abides  as  a  power  for  all 
time.  His  image  casts  itself  upon  the  current  of  the 
ages,  as  the  mountain  mirrors  itself  in  the  river  that 
winds  at  its  foot — the  mighty  fixing  itself  immutably 
upon  the  changing. 


THE    BROOKLYN    BRIDGE. 

By  Abram  Stevens  Hewitt,  Merchant,  Statesman.  B.  1822, 
New  York. 

from  an  address,  of  which  two  extracts  are  given,  delivered  May 
24,  1883,  at  the  opening  of  the  New  York  and  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

When  we  turn  to  the  graceful  structure  at  whose 
pf)rtal  we  stand,  and  when  the  airy  outline  of  its 
curves  of   beauty,   pendant   between  massive  towers 


42  THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE. 

suggestive  of  art  alone,  is  contrasted  with  the  over- 
reaching vault  of  heaven  above  and  the  ever-mov- 
ing flood  of  waters  beneath,  the  work  of  omnipotent 
power,  we  are  irresistibly  moved  to  exclaim,  What  hath 
man  wrought  ! 

Man  hath  indeed  wrought  far  more  than  strikes 
the  eye  in  this  daring  undertaking.  It  is  not  the  work 
of  any  one  man  or  of  any  one  age.  It  is  the  result  of 
the  study,  of  the  experience,  and  of  the  knowledge  of 
many  men  in  many  ages.  It  is  not  merely  a  creation  ; 
it  is  a  growth.  ...  ... 

In  no  previous  period  of  the  world's  history  could 
this  bridge  have  been  built.  Within  the  last  hundred 
years  the  greater  part  of  the  knowledge  necessary  for 
its  construction  has  been  gained.  This  construction 
has  employed  every  abstract  conclusion  and  formula 
of  mathematics,  whether  derived  from  the  study  of 
the  earth  or  the  heavens.  The  great  discoveries  of 
chemistry,  the  nature  of  gases,  the  properties  of 
metals,  the  laws  and  processes  of  physics,  from  the 
strains  and  pressures  of  mighty  masses  to  the  delicate 
vibrations  of  molecules,  are  all  recorded  here. 

It  looks  like  a  motionless  mass  of  masonry  and 
metal  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  instinct  with 
motion.  It  is  an  aggregation  of  unstable  elements, 
changing  with  every  change  in  temperature  and  every 
movement  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  but  the  product  is 
absolute  stability.  It  stands  before  us  to-day  as  the 
sum  and  epitome  of  human  knowledge  ;  as  the  very 
heir  of  the  ages  ;  as  the  latest  glory  of  centuries  of 
patient  observation,  profound  study  and  accumulated 


THE  MINUTE-MEN  OF  '-js-  43 

skill,  gained,  step  by  step,  in  the  never-ending  struggle 
of  man  to  subdue  the  forces  of  nature  to  his  control 
and  use. 


THE  MINUTE-MEN  OF  '75. 

By  George  William  Curtis,  Author,  Orator,  Lecturer,  Edi- 
tor.     B.  1824,  Rhode  Island  ;  lives  in  New  York. 

On  the  day  that  the  Continental  Congress  separated — October 
26,  1774 — the  Provincial  Congress  of  Massachusetts  took  a  step 
decisive  of  war.  "  This  was  the  organization  of  the  militia,  one- 
fourth  of  them  being  constituted  minute-men,  bound  to  take  up 
arms  at  a  minute's  warning." 

Citizens  of  a  great,  free,  and  prosperous  country, 
we  come  hither  to  honor  the  men,  our  fathers,  who  on 
this  spot  struck  the  first  blow  in  the  contest  which 
made  our  country  independent.  Here,  beneath  the 
hills  they  trod,  by  the  peaceful  river  on  whose  shores 
they  dwelt,  amidst  the  fields  that  they  sowed  and 
reaped,  we  come  to  tell  their  story,  to  try  ourselves 
by  their  lofty  standard,  to  know  if  we  are  their  worthy 
children  ;  and,  standing  reverently  where  they  stood 
and  fought  and  died,  to  swear  before  God  and  each 
other,  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people, 
for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

•1*  T*  T*  •P  TV  T* 

The  last  living  link  with  the  Revolution  has  long 
been  broken  ;  and  we  who  stand  here  to-day  have  a 
sympathy  with  the  men  at  the  old  North  Bridge, 
which  those  who  preceded  us  here  at  earlier  celebra- 
tions could  not  know.  With  them  war  was  a  name 
and  a  tradition.     When  they  assembled  to  celebrate 


44  THE  MINUTE-MEN  OF  '75. 

this  day,  they  saw  a  little  group  of  tottering  forms, 
whose  pride  was  that,  before  living  memory,  they  had 
been  minute-men  of  American  Independence. 

But  with  us,  how  changed  !  War  is  no  longer  a 
tradition,  half  romantic  and  obscure.  It  has  ravaged 
how  many  of  our  homes,  it  has  wrung  how  many  of 
the  hearts  before  me  ?  North  and  South,  we  know 
the  pang.  We  do  not  count  around  us  a  few  feeble 
veterans  of  the  contest,  but  we  are  girt  with  a  cloud 
of  witnesses.  Behold  them  here  to-day,  sharing  in 
these  pious  and  peaceful  rites,  the  honored  citizens 
whose  glory  it  is  that  they  were  minute-men  of  Ameri- 
can liberty  and  union  !  These  men  of  to-day  inter- 
pret to  us,  with  resistless  eloquence,  the  men  and  the 
times  we  commemorate.  Now,  if  never  before,  we 
understand  the  Revolution.  Now,  we  know  the 
secrets  of  those  old  hearts  and  homes. 

No  royal  governor  sits  in  yon  stately  capitol  ;  no 
hostile  fleet  for  many  a  year  has  vexed  the  waters  of 
our  coast  ;  nor  is  any  army  but  our  own  ever  likely  to 
tread  our  soil.  Not  such  are  our  enemies  to-day. 
They  do  not  come  proudly  stepping  to  the  drum-beat, 
with  bayonets  flashing  in  the  morning  sun.  But 
wherever  party  spirit  shall  strain  the  ancient  guaran- 
tees of  freedom,  or  bigotry  and  ignorance  of  caste 
shall  strike  at  equal  rights,  or  corruption  shall  poison 
the  very  springs  of  national  life,  there,  minute-men  of 
liberty,  are  your  Lexington  Green  and  Concord 
Bridge  !  And,  as  you  love  your  country  and  your 
kind,  and  would  have  your  children  rise  up  and  call 
you  blessed,  spare  not  the  enemy  !     Over  the  hills, 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE.  45 

out  of  the  earth,  down  from  the  clouds,  pour  in  re- 
sistless inignt '  Fire  from  every  rock  and  tree,  from 
door  and  window,  from  hearthstone  and  chamber  ; 
hang  upon  his  flank  and  rear  from  morn  to  sunset, 
and  so  through  a  land  blazing  with  holy  indignation, 
hurl  the  hordes  of  ignorance  and  corruption  and  in- 
justice back,  back  in  utter  defeat  and  ruin 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 

By  David  Law  Proudfit,  Journalist,  Poet.     B.   1S42,  New 
Y-rk. 

Prop  yer  eyes  wide  open,  Joey, 
Fur  I've  brought  you  sumpin  great. 
Apples  ?     No,  a  heap  site  better  ! 
Don't  you  take  no  int'rest  ?     Wait. 
Tears,  my  boy?     Wot's  them  fur,  Joey- 
There — poor  little  Joe  !  don't  cry  ! 

I  war.  skippen  past  a  winder, 
Where  a  bang-up  lady  sot, 
All  amongst  a  lot  of  bushes, — 
Each  one  climbin'  from  a  pot ; 
Every  bush  had  flowers  on  it, — 
Pretty  ?     Mebbe  not  !     O,  no  ! 
Wish  you  could  'a'  seen  'em  growin', 
It  was  sich  a  stunnin'  show. 

Well,  I  thought  of  you,  poor  feller, 
Lyin'  here  so  sick  and  weak, 
Never  knowin'  any  comfort ; 
And  I  puts  on  lots  o'  cheek. 


46  POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 

**  Missus,"  says  I,  "  if  you  please,  mum 
Could  I  ax  you  for  a  rose  ? 
For  my  little  brother,  missus, — 
Never  seed  one,  I  suppose." 

Then  I  told  her  all  about  you, — 
How  I  bring'd  you  up,  poor  Joe, 
(Lackin'  women  folks  to  do  it)  ; 
Sich  a'  imp  you  was,  you  know, — 
Till  you  got  that  awful  tumble, 
Jist  as  I  had  broke  yer  in 
(Hard  work,  too)  to  earn  yer  livin' 
Blackin'  boots  for  honest  tin. 

How  that  tumble  crippled  of  you, 
So's  you  couldn't  hyper  much  ! 
Joe,  it  hurted  when  I  seen  you 
Fur  the  first  time  with  your  crutch. 
"  But,"  I  says,  "  he's  laid  up  now,  mura 
'Pears  to  weaken  every  day  "  ; 
Joe,  she  up  and  went  to.  cuttin', — 
That's  the  how  of  this  bokay. 

Say  !     It  seems  to  me,  ole  feller, 
You  is  quite  yerself  to  night  ; 
Kind  of  chirk  ;  it's  been  a  fort'nit 
Sense  yer  eyes  has  been  so  bright. 
Better  ?     Well  !  I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 
Yes,  they're  mighty  pretty,  Joe — 
Smellin'  of  'em's  made  you  happy  ? 
Well,  I  thought  it  would,  you  know  \ 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE.  47 

Never  see  the  country,  did  you  ? 
Flowers  growin'  everywhere  ! 
Sometime  when  you're  better,  Joey, 
Mebbe  I  kin  take  you  there. 
Flowers  in  heaven  ?   'M — I  s'pose  so  ; 
Dunno  much  about  it,  though  ; 
Aint  as  fly  as  wot  I  might  be 
On  them  topics,  little  Joe. 

But  I've  heard  it  hinted  somewhere, 
That  in  heaven's  golden  gates 
Things  is  everlastin'  cheerful, 
B'lieve  that's  wot  the  Bible  states. 
Likewise,  there  folks  don't  get  hungry  ; 
So  good  people,  when  they  dies, 
Finds  themselves  well  fix'd  forever, — 
Joe,  my  boy,  wot  ails  your  eyes  ? 

Thought  they  look'd  a  little  sing'ler, 

O  no  !  don't  you  have  no  fear  ; 

Heaven  was  made  fur  such  as  you  is, 

Joe,  wot  makes  yon  look  so  queer  ? 

Here,  wake  up  !  O,  don't  look  that  way  ! 

Joe  !  My  boy !  Hold  up  your  head  ! 

Here's  yer  flowers, — you  dropp'd  'em,  Joey  i— 

O,  my  God  !  can  Joe  be  dead ! 


4^  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS. 


By  Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans,  Poet.     B.  1794,  England;  d. 

1835,  Ireland. 


The  breaking  waves  dashed  high  on  a  stern  and  rock- 
bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky  their  giant 
branches  tossed, 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark  the  hills  and  waters 
o'er, 

When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark  on  the  wild 
New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes,  they,  the  true-hearted, 

came, — 
Not  with  the  roll  of  stirring  drums,  and  the  trumpet 

that  sings  of  fame  : 
Not  as  the  flying  come,  in  silence  and  in  fear, — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom  with  their 

hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang,  and  the  stars  heard  and 

the  sea  ! 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  wood  rang  to  the 

anthems  of  the  free  ! 
The  ocean-eagle  soared  from  his  nest  by  the  white 

waves'  foam. 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared  ; — this  was 

their  welcome  home. 


GEOLOGY.  49 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair  amidst  that  pilgrim 

band  ; 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there,  away  from  their 

childhood's  land  ? 
There  was  woman's  fearless  eye,  lit  by  her  deep  love's 

truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high  ;  and  the 

fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ?     Bright  jewels  of  the 

mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — They  sought 

a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 
Ay,  call  it  holy  ground,  the  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found, — 

freedom  to  worship  God  ! 


GEOLOGY. 

By  James  Dwight  D.\na,  Geologist,  Naturalist,  Professor. 
B    1813,  New  York  ;  lives  in  New  Haven,  Ct. 

Extract  from  the  "Concluding  Remarks  "of  the"  Manual  of 
Geology." 

Geology  may  seem  to  be  audacious  in  its  attempts 
to  unveil  the  mysteries  of  creation.  Yet  what  it 
reveals  are  only  some  of  the  methods  by  which  the 
Creator  has  performed  his  will ;  and  many  deeper 
mysteries  it  leaves  untouched. 

It  brings  to  view  a  perfect  and  harmonious  system 
of  life,  but  affords  no  explanation  of  the  origin  of 
life,  or  of  any  of  nature's  forces 

It  may  be  said  to  have  searched  out  the  mode  of 


50  GEOLOGY. 

development  of  a  world.  Yet  it  can  point  to  no 
physical  cause  of  that  prophecy  of  Man  which  runs 
through  the  whole  history  ;  which  was  uttered  by  the 
winds  and  waves  at  their  work  over  the  sands,  by  the 
rocks  in  each  movement  of  the  earth's  crust,  and  by 
every  living  thing  in  the  long  succession,  until  Man 
appeared  to  make  the  mysterious  announcements  intel- 
ligible. For  the  body  of  Man  was  not  made  more 
completely  for  the  service  of  the  soul,  than  the  earth, 
in  all  its  arrangements  from  beginning  to  end,  for  the 
spiritual  being  that  was  to  occupy  it.  In  Man,  the 
bones  are  not  merely  the  jointed  frame-work  of  an 
animal,  but  a  frame-work  shaped  throughout  with 
reference  to  that  erect  structure  which  befits  and  can 
best  serve  Man's  spiritual  nature.  The  feet  are  not 
the  clasping  and  climbing  feet  of  a  monkey  ;  they  are 
so  made  as  to  give  firmness  to  the  tread  and  dignity 
to  the  bearing  of  the  being  made  in  God's  image.  The 
hands  have  that  fashioning  of  the  palm,  fingers,  and 
thumb,  and  that  delicacy  of  the  sense  of  touch,  which 
adapt  them  not  only  to  feed  the  mouth,  but  to  contrib- 
ute to  the  wants  of  the  soul  and  obey  its  promptings. 
The  arms  are  not  for  strength  alone, — for  they  are 
weaker  than  in  many  a  brute, — but  to  give  greater 
power  and  expression  to  the  thoughts  that  issue  from 
within.  The  face,  with  its  expressive  features,  is  formed 
so  as  to  respond  not  solely  to  the  emotions  of  pleasure 
and  pain,  but  to  shades  of  sentiment  and  interacting 
sympathies  the  most  varied,  high  as  heaven  and  low  as 
earth, — ay,  lower,  in  debased  human  nature.  And  the 
whole  being,  body,  limbs,  and  head,  with  eyes  looking, 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  AXD  MASSACHUSETTS.      5T 

not  toward  the  earth,  but  beyond  an  infinite  horizon, 
s  a  majestic  expression  of  the  divine  feature  in  Man, 
and  of  the  infinitude  of  his  aspirations. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  AND   MASSACHUSETTS. 

By  Daniel  Webster,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  17S2, 
New  Hampshire  ;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

Part  of  the  "  Reply  to  Hayne,"  a  two  days'  speech,  delivered 
in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  January  26-27,  1S30.  Robert 
Y.  Hayne,  a  Senator  from  South  Carolina,  contended  that  a  State 
had  the  right  of  nullifying  any  act  of  Congress  which  it  should 
consider  unconstitutional.  Webster  declared  that  the  government 
was  established  by  the  people  of  the  United  States  as  a  whole,  and 
not  by  the  States  as  separate  members.  Hayne  had  eulogized 
South  Carolina  for  her  part  in  the  founding  of  the  government. 

I  SHALL  not  acknowledge  that  the  honorable  member 
goes  before  me  in  regard  for  whatever  of  distinguished 
talent  or  distinguished  character  South  Carolina  has 
produced.  I  claim  part  of  the  honor,  I  partake  in 
the  pride,  of  her  great  name.  I  claim  them  for 
countrymen,  one  and  all.  The  Laurenses,  the  Rut- 
ledges,  the  Pinckneys,  the  Sumters,  the  Marions — 
Americans  all — whose  fame  is  no  more  to  be  hemmed 
in  by  State  lines  than  their  talents  and  patriotism 
were  capable  of  being  circumscribed  within  the  same 
narrow  limits.  In  their  day  and  generation,  they 
served  and  honored  the  country,  and  the  whole 
country  ;  and  their  renown  is  of  the  treasures  of  the 
whole  country.  ...... 

Mr.  President,  I  shall  enter  on  no  encomium  upon 
Massachusetts — she  needs  none.  There  she  is — 
behold  her,  and  judge  fur  yourselves.  There  is  her 
history— the  world  knows  it  by  heart.     The  past,  at 


52  THE  MONSTER   CANNON. 

least,  is  secure.  There  is  Boston,  and  Concord,  and 
Lexington,  and  Bunker  Hill ;  and  there  they  will 
remain  forever.  The  bones  of  her  sons,  fallen  in  the 
great  struggle  for  independence,  now  lie  mingled  with 
the  soil  of  every  State  from  New  England  to  Georgia  ; 
and  there  they  will  lie  forever.  And,  sir,  where 
American  liberty  raised  its  first  voice,  and  where  its 
youth  was  nurtured  and  sustained,  there  it  still  lives, 
in  the  strength  of  its  manhood,  and  full  of  its  original 
spirit.  If  discord  and  disunion  shall  wound  it ;  if 
party  strife  and  blind  ambition  shall  hawk  at  and  tear 
it ;  if  folly  and  madness,  if  uneasiness  under  salutary 
and  necessary  restraint,  shall  succeed  to  separate 
it  from  that  Union  by  which  alone  its  existence  is 
made  sure, — it  will  stand,  in  the  end,  by  the  side  of 
that  cradle  in  which  its  infancy  was  rocked  ;  it  will 
stretch  forth  its  arm,  with  whatever  vigor  it  may  still 
retain,  over  the  friends  who  gather  round  it ;  and  it  will 
fall  at  last,  if  fall  it  must,  amidst  the  proudest  monu- 
ments of  its  own  glory,  and  on  the  very  spot  of  its  origin. 


THE  MONSTER  CANNON.* 

By  Victor  Marie  Hugo,  Poet,  Novelist.  B.  1802,  France  ; 
d.  1885,  France. 

Chateaubriand  called  him  "  L'enfant  sublime,"  the  sublime 
child,  because  of  his  precocious  genius.  — "  Ninety-Three,"  from 
which  this  extract  is  made,  was  published  in  1B74,  and  was  trans- 
lated by  Helen  B.  Dole. 

They  heard  a  noise  unlike  anything  usually  heard. 
The  cry  and  the  noise  came    from   inside  the  vessel. 

*  This  incident  has  been  condensed  to  bring  it  within  the  time  limit. 


I-tTE   MOiVSTER    CANNON.  53 

One  of  the  carronades  of  the  battery,  a  twenty-four 
pounder,  had  become  detached. 

This,  perhaps,  is  the  most  formidable  of  ocean 
events.  Nothing  more  terrible  can  happen  to  a  war 
vessel,  at  sea  and  under  full  sail. 

A  cannon  which  breaks  its  moorings  becomes 
abruptly  some  indescribable  supernatural  beast. 

What  is  to  be  done  ?  A  tempest  ceases,  a  cyclone 
passes,  a  wind  goes  down,  a  broken  mast  is  replaced, 
a  leak  is  stopped,  a  fire  put  out  ;  but  what  shall  be 
done  with  this  enormous  brute  of  bronze  ? 

All  of  a  sudden,  in  that  kind  of  unapproachable 
circuit  wherein  the  escaped  cannon  bounded,  a  man 
appeared,  with  an  iron  bar  in  his  hand.  It  was  the 
author  of  the  catastrophe,  the  chief  gunner,  guilty  of 
negligence  and  the  cause  of  the  accident,  the  master 
of  the  carronade. 

Then  a  wild  exploit  commenced  ;  a  Titanic  spec- 
tacle ;  the  combat  of  the  gun  with  the  gunner  ;  the 
battle  of  matter  and  intelligence  ;  the  duel  of  the  ani- 
mate and  the  inanimate.  On  one  side  force,  on  the 
other  a  soul. 

A  soul  !  a  strange  thing !  one  would  have  thought 
the  cannon  had  one  also,  but  a  soul  of  hate  and 
rage.  This  sightless  thing  seemed  to  have  eyes. 
The  monster  appeared  to  watch  the  man.  There 
was  cunning  in  this  mass.  It  chose  its  moment. 
It  was  a  kind  of  gigantic  insect  of  iron,  having  the 
will  of  a  demon.  At  times  this  colossal  grasshopper 
would  strike  the  low  ceiling  of  the  battery,  then  fal! 
back  on  its  four  wheels  like  a  tiger  on  its  four  claws, 


54  THE  MONSTER   CAMNOlSr. 

and  commence  again  to  dart  upon  the  man.  He, 
supple,  agile,  adroit,  writhed  like  an  adder  in  guarding 
against  all  these  lightning-like  movements. 

Such  things  cannot  last  long.  The  cannon  seemed 
to  say  all  at  once  :  "  Come  !  there  must  be  an  end  to 
this  !  "  and  it  stopped. 

The  man  had  taken  refuge  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder, 
a  few  steps  from  an  old  man  who  was  present.  The 
gunner  held  his  handspike  at  rest.  The  cannon 
seemed  to  perceive  him,  and  without  taking  the 
trouble  to  turn  round,  fell  back  on  the  man  with  the 
promptness  of  an  axe-stroke.  The  man  if  driven 
against  the  side  was  lost.     All  the  crew  gave  a  cry. 

But  the  old  passenger,  till  then  immovable,  sprang 
forward,  more  rapidly  than  all  those  wild  rapidities. 
He  had  seized  a  bale  of  false  assignats,  and,  at  the 
risk  of  being  crushed,  he  had  succeeded  in  throwing 
it  between  the  wheels  of  the  cannon. 

The  bale  had  the  effect  of  a  plug.  A  pebble  stops 
a  bulk  ;  a  branch  of  a  tree  diverts  an  avalanche. 
The  cannon  stumbled.  The  gunner  in  his  turn, 
taking  advantage  of  this  terrible  juncture,  plunged  his 
iron  bar  between  the  spokes  of  one  of  the  hind-wheels. 
The  cannon  stopped.  The  man,  using  his  bar  as  a 
lever,  made  it  rock.  The  heavy  mass  turned  over, 
with  the  noise  of  a  bell  tumbling  down,  and  the  man, 
rushing  headlong,  attached  the  slip-knot  of  the  gun- 
tackle  to  the  bronze  neck  of  the  conquered  monster. 

It  was  finished.  The  man  had  vanquished.  The 
ant  had  subdued  the  mastodon  ;  the  pigmy  had  made 
a  prisoner  of  the  thunderbolt, 


OUR    COUNTRY.  55 

OUR  COUNTRY. 

By  Ben^jamin  Harrison,  Statesman,  President  of  the  United 
States      B.  1833,  Indiana. 

Delivered  at  a  banquet  in  New  York  City,  April  30,  1889,  dur- 
ing the  Centennial  Exercises  commemorating  the  inauguration  of 
George  Washington  as  first  President  of  the  United  States,  in  New 
York,  April  30,  1789. 

Washington  delivered  his  inaugur-il  address  from  the  portico  of 
Federal  Hall,  now  the  Sub-Treasury  Building,  at  Wall  and 
Broad  streets. 

I  PREFER  to  substitute  for  the  official  title  which  is 
upon  the  programme,  that  familiar  and  fireside  expres- 
sion, "  Our  Country." 

I  congratulate  you  to-day,  as  one  of  the  instructive 
and  interesting  features  of  this  occasion,  that  these 
great  thoroughfares,  dedicated  to  trade,  have  closed 
their  doors  and  covered  the  insignia  of  commerce  with 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  ;  that  your  great  Exchanges 
have  closed,  and  that  into  the  very  heart  of  Wall 
Street  the  flag  has  been  carried.  Upon  the  old  his- 
toric spot,  the  men  who  give  their  time  and  energies 
to  trade,  have  given  these  days  to  their  country,  to 
the  cause  of  her  glory,  and  to  the  aspiration  for  her 
honor  and  development. 

I  have  great  pleasure  in  believing  that  the  love  of 
country  has  been  intensified  in  many  hearts  here  ;  not 
only  of  you  who  might  be  called,  and  some  who  have 
been  called,  to  witness  your  love  for  the  flag  in  bat- 
tle-fields by  sea  and  land,  but  in  these  homes,  among 
these  fair  women  who  look  down  upon  us  to-night, 
and  in  the  thoughts  of  those  little  children  who  min- 
gled their  piping  cries  with  the  hoarser  acclaims  as 
we  moved  along  your  streets  to-day. 


5^  OUR   COUNTRY. 

I  believe  that  patriotism  has  been  blown  into  a 
higher  and  holier  flame  in  many  hearts.  These  ban- 
ners with  which  you  have  covered  your  walls  ;  these 
patriotic  inscriptions  must  come  dov/n,  and  the  ways 
of  commerce  and  trade  be  resumed  here  again. 

I  will  ask  you  to  carry  these  banners  that  now  hang 
on  the  wall  into  your  homes,  into  the  public  schools  of 
your  city,  into  all  your  great  institutions  where  chil- 
dren are  gathered,  and  to  drape  them  there,  that  the 
eyes  of  the  young  and  of  the  old  may  look  upon 
that  flag  as  one  of  the  familiar  adornments  of  the 
American  home. 

Have  we  not  learned  that  not  stocks  nor  bonds  nor 
stately  houses  nor  lands  nor  the  product  of  the  mill  is 
our  country  ?  It  is  a  spiritual  thought  that  is  in  our 
minds.     It  is  the  flag  and  what  it  stands  for. 

It  is  its  glorious  history.  It  is  the  fireside  and  the 
home.  It  is  the  high  thoughts  that  are  in  the  heart, 
born  of  the  inspiration  which  comes  by  the  stories  of 
then-  fathers,  the  martyrs  to  liberty  ;  it  is  the  grave- 
yards into  which  our  careful  country  has  gathered  the 
unconscious  dust  of  those  who  have  died.  Here,  in 
these  things,  it  is  that  thing  we  love  and  call  our 
country  rather  than  in  anything  that  can  be  touched 
or  handled. 

To  elevate  the  morals  of  our  people  ;  to  hold  up 
the  law  as  that  sacred  thing,  which,  like  the  ark  of 
God  of  old,  cannot  be  touched  by  irreverent  hands, 
and  frowns  upon  every  attempt  to  displace  its  suprem- 
acy ;  to  unite  our  people  in  all  that  makes  home  pure 
and  honorable,  as  well  as  to  give  our  energies  in  the 


THE  LEPER.  57 

direction  of  our  material  advancement ;  these  services 
we  may  render,  and  out  of  this  great  demonstration 
do  we  not  all  ftel  like  reconsecrating  ourselves  to  the 
love  and  service  of  our  country  ? 


THE    LEPER. 

By  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,    Poet,    Author.      B.    1807 
Maine,  lived  in  New  York  ;  d.  1867. 

"  Room  for  the  leper  !     Room  !  "     And  as  he  came 
The  cry  passed  on,  — "  Room  for  the  leper !    Room  ! ' 
******* 

And  aside  they  stood, 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood, — all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way, — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper,  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
\  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  unclean  !  " 

******* 

And  he  went  forth  alone  \     Not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.     Yea,  he  went  his  way, 
Sick  and  heart-broken,  and  alone, — to  die  .' 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper  ! 


SS  THE  LEPER. 

It  was  noon, 
And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  he  might  be  so  blest — to  die  ! 
Footsteps  approached,  and  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  unclean  !  "  and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  Stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name. 
"  Helon  !  " — The  voice  was  like  the  master-tone, 
Of  a  rich  instrument — most  strangely  sweet  ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill, 
"  Helon  !  arise  !  "     And  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 
Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helen's  eye, 
As  he  beheld  the  Stranger.     He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  lofty  lineage  wore ; 
No  followers  at  his  back,  nor  in  his  hand 
Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear  ;  yet  in  his  mien 
Command  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  he  smiled, 
A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips  ; 

»  «:  «  «  4:  4:  * 


CLEAR    THE    WAY.  59 

His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 

In  the  serenest  noon  ;  his  hair,  unshorn, 

Fell  to  his  shoulders;  and  his  curling  beard 

The  fullness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 

He  looked  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 

As  if  his  heart  was  moved ;  and  stooping  down 

He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand, 

And  laid  it  on  his  brow  and  said,  "  Be  clean  !  " 

And  lo  !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 

Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 

And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 

The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 

His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 

Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet,  and  worshiped  him. 


CLEAR   THE   WAY. 
By  Charles  Mackay,  Poet.     B.  1814,  Scotland;  d.  1889 

Men  of  thought,  be  up  and  stirring 

Night  and  day ! 
Sow  the  seed,  withdraw  the  curtain, 

Clear  the  way ! 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them 

As  ye  may. 
There's  a  fount  about  to  stream, 
There's  a  light  about  to  beam. 
There's  a  warmth  about  to  glow. 
There's  a  flower  about  to  blow. 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  changing 

Into  gray. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way  I 


6o  CLEAR    THE    WAY. 

Once  the  welcome  light  has  broken, 

Who  shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories 

Of  the  day, 
What  the  evil  that  shall  perish 

In  its  ray  ? 
Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen ; 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men ; 
Aid  it,  paper ;  aid  it,  type  — 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe, 
And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken 

Into  play. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action. 

Clear  the  way ! 

Lo,  a  cloud's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day. 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble 

Into  clay  ! 
Lo,  the  right's  about  to  conquer ! 

Clear  the  way ! 
With  the  Right  shall  many  more 
Enter,  smiling,  at  the  door. 
With  the  giant  Wrong  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small. 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  prey. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way! 


RATISBON.  6 1 


RATISBON. 

By  Robert  Browning,  Poet.  B.  1812,  England  ;  d.  18S9, 
Venice. 

Ratisbon  or  Regensburg  is  an  important  city  of  Bavaria,  situ- 
ated on  the  Danube,  and  the  birth  place  of  the  great  astronomer 
Kepler. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused, — "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smoke  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound, 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  thro') 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


62  OLD  FAITHS  IN  NEW  LIGHT. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I.  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "     The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  Chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 
"You're  wounded  !  "     "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  I'm  killed,  sire  !  "     And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


OLD  FAITHS  IN  NEW  LIGHT. 

By  Samuel  Phillips  Newman  Smyth,  Clergyman.  B.  iS-ij, 
Maine  ;  lives  in  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

The  following  is  taken  from  the  concluding  chapter  of  his  book, 
'=  Old  Faiths  in  New  Light." 

We  need  never  hesitate  to  bring  old  faiths  into 
new  light.  Our  spiritual  life  can  suffer  and  grow 
pale  only  if  we  shut  it  out  from  the  increasing  light, 
and  leave  it  to  grow  in  the  darkness.  The  clear 
shining  of  knowledge  may  dissipate  a  thousand  fancies 
which  we  have  mistaken  for  realities  ;  but  it  shall  bring 
to  faith  health,  and  vigor,  and  renewed  life.     While 


THE  HIGH    TIDE   AT  GETTYSBURG.  63 

many  run  to  and  fro,  and  knowledge  is  increased, 
Christianity  cannot  be  preserved  as  a  cloistered  virtue; 
or  a  scholastic  art ;  but  out  in  the  breezy  world,  under 
the  open  sky,  rejoicing  in  the  light,  its  strength  shall 
not  be  abated,  nor  its  eye  grow  dim.  Reverently  and 
humbly,  but  nothing  doubting,  the  Christian  apologist 
of  to-day  may  follow  wherever  new  paths  of  knowl- 
edge seem  opening  to  our  approach  ;  and  though  he 
goes  down  into  the  depths,  or  wanders  through  realms 
of  strange  shadows,  and  endless  confusions,  neverthe- 
less, after  he  has  traversed  all  the  spheres  into  which 
thought  can  find  entrance,  if  he  remains  true  to  the 
spirit  sent  for  his  guidance,  his  better  self, — like 
Dante  following  Beatrice  from  world  to  world, — he 
shall  find  himself  at  last  by  the  gates  of  Paradise,  walk- 
ing in  a  cloud  of  light,  full  of  all  melodious  voices. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

By  Will.  H.  Thompson,  Lawyer,  Poet.     B.   1848,  Georgia  ; 
lives  in  Seattle,  Washington. 

A  CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 

The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 

Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed 

And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed. 

And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down. 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 


64  THE  HIGH   TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs, — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  soUtudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  son  ! 
***** 

"  Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me  !  " 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee  ; 
"  We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day  !" 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

^  JJS  HC  TST  T* 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet  ! 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged. 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost  ! 

The  brave  went  down  !     Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  ruin's  red  embrace. 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smile's  on  Glory's  bloody  face  ! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 

And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand  ! 


RICHELIEU  AND  FRANCE.  6$ 

They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland  ! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium  ! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom  ! 

God  lives  !     He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns  !     He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still  ! 

Fold  up  the  banners  !     Smelt  the  guns  ! 
Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years. 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons ! 


RICHELIEU  AND  FRANCE. 

By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Novelist,  Statesman.  B. 
1805,  England  ;  d.  1873. 

Armand  Jean  Du  Plessis,  Cardinal,  Due  de  Richelieu,  was  born 
at  I'aris,  France,  1585.  and  died  in  1642.  He  became  the  Minister 
of  State  under  Louis  XIII.,  and  virtual  ruler  of  France. 

Mv  liege,  your  anger  can  recall  your  trust, 

Annul  my  office,  spoil  me  of  my  lands. 

Rifle  my  coffers ;  but  my  name, — my  deeds, — 


66  RICHELIEU  AND  FRANCE. 

Are  royal  in  a  land  beyond  your  scepter. 

Pass  sentence  on  me,  if  you  will  ; — from  kings, 

Lo,  I  appeal  to  time  !     Be  just,  my  liege. 

I  found  your  kingdom  rent  with  heresies. 

And  bristling  with  rebellion  ; — lawless  nobles 

And  breadless  serfs  ;  England  fomenting  discord  ; 

Austria,  her  clutch  on  your  dominions  ;  Spain 

Forging  the  prodigal  gold  of  either  Ind 

To  armed  thunderbolts.     The  arts  lay  dead  ; 

Trade  rotted  in  your  marts  ;  your  armies  mutinous, 

Your  treasury  bankrupt.     Would  you  now  revoke 

Your  trust,  so  be  it !  and  I  leave  you  sole, 

Supremest  monarch  of  the  mightiest  realm 

From  Ganges  to  the  Icebergs.     Look  without, — 

No  foe  not  humbled  !     Look  within, — the  arts 

Quit,  for  our  schools,  their  old  Hesperides, 

The  golden  Italy  !  while  throughout  the  veins 

Of  your  vast  empire  flows  in  strengthening  tides 

Trade,  the  calm  health  of  nations  !     Sire,  I  know 

That  men  have  called  me  cruel  : — 

I  am  not ; — I  am  just  !  I  found  France  rent  asunder  : 

The  rich  men  despots  and  the  poor  banditti  ; 

Sloth  in  the  mart  and  schism  within  the  temple  ; 

Brawls  festering  to  rebellion  ;  and  weak  laws 

Rotting  away  with  rust  in  antique  sheaths. 

I  have  re-created  France  ;  and,  from  the  ash 

Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepit  carcass, 

Civilization  on  her  luminous  wings, 

Soars,  phcenix-like  to  Jove  !     What  was  my  art  ? 

Genius,  some  say  ; — some  fortune  ; — witchcraft,  some. 

Not  so, — my  art  was  justice  I 


FAREWELL    TO  ENGLAND.  67 


FAREWELL  TO  ENGLAND. 

By  Edward  John  Phelps,  Jurist,  Minister  to  England.  B. 
1822,  Vermont ;  lives  in  New  Haven,  Ct. 

On  the  eve  of  his  departure  from  England.  January  24,  1889, 
a  banquet  was  given  by  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London  in  honor  of 
Minister  Phelps,  at  which  he  delivered  a  farewell  address  of  which 
the  following  is  a  part. 

It  is  rather  a  pleasant  coincidence  to  me  that  almost 
the  first  hospitality  that  was  offered  to  me  after  my 
arrival  in  England  came  from  my  friend  the  Lord 
Mayor.  It  seems  to  me  a  fortunate  propriety  that  my 
last  public  words  should  be  spoken  under  the  same 
hospitable  roof,  the  home  of  the  chief  magistrate  of 
the  City  of  London.  Nor  can  I  ever  forget  the  cor- 
dial and  generous  reception  that  was  then  accorded, 
not  to  myself  personally,  for  I  was  altogether  a  stranger, 
but  to  the  representative  of  my  country.  It  struck 
what  has  proved  the  keynote  of  all  my  relations  here. 
It  indicated  to  me  at  the  outset  how  warm  and  hearty 
was  the  feeling  of  Englishmen  toward  America.  And 
it  gave  me  to  understand,  what  I  was  not  slow  to 
accept  and  believe,  that  I  was  accredited  not  merely 
from  one  government  to  the  other,  but  from  the  people 
of  America  to  the  people  of  England,— that  the 
American  minister  was  not  expected  to  be  merely  a 
diplomatic  functionary,  shrouded  in  reticence  and  re- 
tirement, jealously  watching  over  doubtful  relations, 
and  carefully  guarding  against  anticipated  dangers  ; 
but  that  he  was  to  be  the  guest  of  his  kinsmen— one 
of  themselves— the  messenger  of  the  sympathy  and 
good  will,  the  mutual  and   warm   regard  and  esteem, 


68  FAREWELL    TO  ENGLAND. 

that  bind  together  two  great  nations  of  the  same  race, 
and  make  them  one  in  all  the  fair  humanities  of  hfe. 
I  have  been  happy  in  feeling  always  that  the  English 
people  had  a  claim  upon  the  American  Minister  for  all 
kind  and  friendly  offices  in  his  power,  and  upon  his 
presence  and  voice  on  all  occasions,  when  they  could 
be  thought  to  further  any  good  work. 

And  so  I  have  gone  in  and  out  among  you  these 
four  years,  and  have  come  to  know  you  well.  I  have 
taken  part  in  many  gratifying  public  functions  ;  I  have 
been  a  guest  at  many  homes.  My  heart  has  gone  out 
with  yours  in  the  memorable  jubilee  of  that  Sovereign 
Lady  whom  all  Englishmen  love  and  all  Americans 
honor.  I  have  stood  with  you  by  some  unforgotten 
graves  ;  I  have  shared  in  many  joys  ;  and  I  have  tried 
as  well  as  I  could  through  it  all,  in  my  small  way,  to 
promote  constantly  a  better  understanding,  a  fuller 
and  mor-:  accurate  knowledge,  a  more  genuine  sym- 
pathy between  the  people  of  the  two  countries. 

*'  Farewell  ''  is  a  word  often  lightly  uttered,  and 
readily  forgotten.  But  when  it  marks  the  rounding 
off  and  completion  of  a  chapter  in  life,  the  severance 
of  ties  many  and  cherished,  and  the  parting  with  many 
fiiends  at  once — especially  when  it  is  spoken  among 
the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  western  light — it  sticks 
somewhat  in  the  throat.  It  becomes,  indeed,  "  the 
word  that  makes  us  linger."  But  it  does  not  prompt 
many  other  words.  It  is  best  expressed  in  few.  What 
goes  without  saying  is  better  than  what  is  said. 
Not  much  can  be  added  to  the  old  English  word 
"  Goodbye."     You  are  not  sending  me  away  empty- 


THE   PILGRIM  ANCESTORS.  69 

handed  or  alone.  I  go  freighted  and  laden  with  happy 
memories  —  inexhaustible  and  unalloyed  —  of  England, 
its  warm  hearted  people  and  their  measureless  kind- 
ness. Spirits  more  than  twain  will  cross  with  me, 
messengers  of  your  good  will.  Happy  the  nation  that 
can  thus  speed  its  parting  guest !  Fortunate  the  guest 
who  has  found  his  welcome  almost  an  adoption,  and 
whose  farewell  leaves  half  his  heart  behind. 


THE  PILGRIM  ANCESTORS. 

By  David  C.  Robinson.  From  an  address  before  the  New  Eng- 
land Society  in  New  York  City,  Dec.  21,  1892. 

Laugh  at  their  whims  and  rigid  tenets  as  we  may, 
they  have  left  us  a  heritage  unequaled  in  the  story 
of  the  world.  Theirs  was  a  mighty  struggle  for  all 
that  may  ennoble  man  or  make  him  better  than  his 
fathers  were.  The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  ages 
centered  in  that  shaky  ship  bound  westward  on  an  un- 
known and  tempestuous  sea.  The  spirit  of  the  free 
was  with  that  little  bark,  as  each  day  gave  its  light ; 
the  God  of  the  heroic  and  the  true  its  pilot,  when  the 
night  came  down  on  the  sea.  A  wild  and  stormy  ride 
from  shore  to  shore ;  a  fierce  and  bitter  strife  with  fire 
and  flood,  savage  and  element,  their  daily  portion  as 
they  sail,  and  when  they  rested  on  the  rocky  shore  they 
called  at  last  their  home.  What  wonder  that  they 
cradled  there  at  once  the  offspring  of  their  love  and 
the  freedom  of  their  kind;  what  wonder  that  from 
their  sturdy  loins  sprang  forth  a  race  of  giants,  fit 
warriors  for  the  rights  of  generations  yet  to  be  ;  what 
wonder  that  sires  and  sons  have  laughed  to  scorn  the 


70  THE  PILGRIM  ANCESTORS. 

fear  of  tempest  or  of  tyrant  in  service  of  their  faith 
through  all  the  years.  Well  sang  their  favorite  bard 
of  sons,  as  he  might  have  sung  of  sires  and  their 
adopted  shore  :  — 

"  Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  along  the  reefs  along  St.  George's 

bank. 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador,  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank. 
Through  storm  and  wave  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts 

that  man 
The  fishing  smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea  boats  of  Cape  Ann. 
The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent   grimly  over   their  straining    lines,  and   wrestling   with   the 

storms." 

A  hardy  race,  worthy  to  set  the  pattern  of  civiliza- 
tion and  liberty  to  the  mighty  people  who  affection- 
ately called  them  "  fathers  "  in  blood,  in  liberty,  love, 
and  truth.  All  that  nations  can  owe  to  founders ;  all 
that  children  can  owe  to  parents  ;  all  that  truth  and 
self-denial  can  owe  to  their  especial  champions,  is  laid 
upon  the  altar  of  their  memory.  Peace  to  their  sacred 
ashes,  those  Pilgrim  Fathers  of  our  life.  Their  sacri- 
fices were  many  and  their  joys  were  few.  Yet  some- 
where in  the  land  where  faith  meets  its  reward  ; 
somewhere  in  the  heaven  of  the  good  and  the  pure  ; 
somewhere  within  those  temples  of  magnificent  justice 
where  is  given  alike  reward  for  good  and  punishment 
for  evil  done  on  earth  ;  somewhere  beyond  the  reach 
of  human  toil  or  strife,  —  those  Pilgrim  ancestors  shall 
be  given  meed  well-fitted  to  their  high  deservings  ;  and 
"  till  the  sun  grows  cold  and  the  stars  are  old,  and  the 
leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold,"  no  man  among 
their  sons  shall  feel  within  his  veins  the  bounding  of 
their  consecrating  blood  without  thanks  for  every  drop 
that  links  him  to  their  heroic  lives. 


THE   RETURN   OF  KEGULUS.  71 

THE    RETURN    OF    REGULUS. 

By  Elijah  Kellogg,  Clergyman,  Author.  B.  1813,  Port- 
land, Me. 

Marcus  Atilius  Regulus  was  a  favorite  hero  of  the  Roman 
writers.  Chosen  a  second  time  consul  in  256  b  c. ,  he  led  a  force 
against  Carthage,  and  although  at  first  successful  he  was  finally 
defeated  and  captured  255  B.C.  After  five  years  captivity  he  was 
sent  to  Rome  with  the  Punic  envoys.  He  urged  the  Senate  not 
to  grant  terms  of  peace  to  Carthage,  and  returning  to  the  latter 
city  he  was  put  to  death  by  the  enraged  Carthaginians. 

The  palaces  and  domes  of  Carthage  were  burning 
with  the  splendors  of  noon,  and  the  blue  waves  of  her 
harbor  were  rolling  and  gleaming  in  the  gorgeous  sun- 
light. An  attentive  ear  could  catch  a  low  murmur, 
sounding  from  the  center  of  the  city,  which  seemed 
like  the  moaning  of  the  wind  before  a  tempest.  And 
well  it  might.  The  whole  people  of  Carthage,  startled, 
astounded  by  the  report  that  Regulus  had  returned, 
were  pouring,  a  mighty  tide,  into  the  great  square 
before  the  Senate  Houce.  There  were  mothers  in 
that  throng,  whose  captive  sons  were  groaning  in 
Roman  fetters ;  maidens,  whose  lovers  were  dying 
in  the  distant  dungeons  of  Rome  ;  gray-haired  men 
and  matrons,  whom  Roman  steel  had  made  child- 
less ;  .  .  .  .  and  with  wild  voices,  cursing  and  groan- 
nig,  the  vast  throng  gave  vent  to  the  rage,  the  hate, 
the  anguish  of  long  years. 

Calm  and  unmoved  as  the  marble  walls  around  him. 
stood  Regulus,  the  Roman  !  He  stretched  his  arm 
over  the  surging  crowd  with  a  gesture  as  vroudiy 
imperious  as  though  he  stood  at  the  head  ot  hir,  own 
gleaming  cohorts.     Before  that  silent  command  the 


72  THE  RETURN  OF  REGULUS. 

tumult  ceased — the  half-uttered  execration  died  upon 
the  lips — so  intense  was  the  silence  that  the  clank  of 
the  captive's  brazen  manacles  smote  sharp  on  every 
ear,  as  he  thus  addressed  them  : 

"  Ye  doubtless  thought,  judging  of  Roman  virtue  by 
your  own,  that  I  would  break  my  plighted  faith,  rather 
than  by  returning,  and  leaving  your  sons  and  broth- 
ers to  rot  in  Roman  dungeons,  to  meet  your  venge- 
ance  If  the  bright  blood  which  feeds  my  heart 

were  like  the  slimy  ooze  that  stagnates  in  your  veins, 
I  should  have  remained  at  Rome,  saved  my  life  and 
broken  my  oath.  If,  then,  you  ask  why  I  have  come 
back,  to  let  you  work  your  will  on  this  poor  body 
which  I  esteem  but  as  the  rags  that  cover  it, — enough 
reply  for  you,  it  is  because  I  am  a  Rotnan  ! 

"Venerable  senators,  with  trembling  voices  and  out- 
stretched hands,  besought  me  to  return  no  more  to 
Carthage.  The  voice  ot  a  beloved  mother, — her 
withered  hands  beating  her  breast,  her  gray  hairs 
streaming  i:i  the  wind,  tears  flowing  dgwn  her  fur- 
rowed cheeks — praying  me  not  to  leave  her  in  her 
lonely  r,nd  1  -Ipless  old  age,  is  still  sounding  in  my 
cars.  Compared  to  auguish  like  this,  the  paltry  tor- 
ments you  have  in  store  is  as  the  murmur  of  the 
meadow  brook  to  the  wild  tumult  of  the  mountain 
storm.  Go  !  bring  your  threatened  tortures  !  The 
woes  I  see  impending  over  this  fated  city  will  be 
enough  to  sweeten  death,  though  every  nerve  should 
tingle  with  its  agony  !  I  die — but  mine  shall  be  the 
triumph  ;  yours  the  untold  desolation." 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE   LIGHT  BRIGADE.      73 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE  AT 
BALAKLAVA. 

By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet.     B.  1809,  England. 

Balaklava  is  a  small  Greek  fishing  village  with  700  inhabitants 
in  the  Crimea.  During  the  "  Crimean  War"  between  France. 
England  and  Turkey  on  the  one  side  and  Russia  on  the  other,  it 
was  the  scene  of  the  famous  cavalry  charge  described  below,  25th 
October,  1854.  Who  it  was  that  "  had  blundered  "  will  never  be 
known.  Lord  Raglan,  commander  of  the  British  Army,  denied 
that  he  gave  the  order.  Lord  Lucan,  the  cavalry  commander, 
said  that  he  received  the  order  from  Capt.  Nolan  of  Lord  Rag- 
an's  stafl.     Capt.  Nolan  was  killed  in  the  charge. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
**  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said. 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred  ! 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade !  " 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Their?  but  to  do  and  die, — 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 


74      THE   CHARGE   OF    THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

Cannon  in  front  of  them, 
Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

Boldly  they  rode  and  well  ; 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke  ; 

Cossack  and  Russian 

Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  Six  Hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  from  the  jaws  of  Death. 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  Six  Hundred. 


THE   FIRST   VIEW  OF    THE   HEAVENS.         75 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  Six  Hundred. 


THE  FIRST  VIEW  OF  THE   HEAVENS. 

By  Ormsby  MacKnight  Mitchel,  Astronomer,  Author,  Law- 
yer.  Lecturer,  and  Major-General  United  States  Army.  B.  i8og, 
Kentucky;  d.  1862,  South  Carolina. 

Often  have  I  swept  backward,  in  imagination,  six 
thousand  years,  and  stood  beside  our  great  ancestor, 
as  he  gazed  for  the  first  time  upon  the  going  down  of 
the  sun.  What  strange  sensations  must  have  swept 
through  his  bewildered  mind,  as  he  watched  the  last 
departing  ray  of  the  sinking  orb,  unconscious  whether 
he  should  ever  behold  its  return. 

Wrapt  in  a  maze  of  thought,  strange  and  startling, 
he  suffers  his  eye  to  linger  long  about  the  point  at 
which  the  sun  has  slowly  faded  from  view.  A  myste- 
rious darkness  creeps  over  the  face  of  Nature  ;  the 
beautiful  scenes  of  earth  are  slowly  fading,  one  by  one, 
from  his  dimmed  vision. 

A  gloom  deeper  than  that  which  covers  earth  steals 
across  the  mind  of  earth's  solitary  inhabitant.  He 
raises  his  inquiring  gaze  towards  heaven  ;  and  lo  !  a 
silver  crescent  of  light,  clear  and  beautiful,  hanging 
in  the  western  sky,  meets  his  astonished  gaze.  The 
young  moon  charms  his  untutored  vision  and  leads 


7 6         THE  FIRST   VIEW  OF    THE   HEAVENS. 

him  upwards  to  her  bright  attendants,  which  are  now 
stealing,  one  by  one,  from  out  the  deep  blue  sky. 
The  solitary  gazer  bows,  wonders,  and  adores. 

The  hours  glide  by  ;  the  silver  moon  is  gone  ;  the 
stars  are  rising,  slowly  ascending  the  heights  of 
heaven,  and  solemnly  sweeping  downward  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  night.  A  faint  streak  of  rosy  light  is  seen 
in  the  east  ;  it  brightens  ;  the  stars  fade  ;  the  planets 
are  extinguished  ;  the  eye  is  fixed  in  mute  astonish- 
ment on  the  growing  splendor,  till  the  first  rays  of  the 
returning  sun  dart  their  radiance  on  the  young  earth 
and  its  solitary  inhabitant. 

The  curiosity  excited  on  this  first  solemn  night,  the 
consciousness  that  in  the  heavens  God  had  declared 
his  glory,  the  eager  desire  to  comprehend  the  mysteries 
that  dwell  in  their  bright  orbs,  have  clung,  through  the 
long  lapse  of  six  thousand  years,  to  the  descendants 
of  him  who  first  watched  and  wondered.  In  this 
boundless  field  of  investigation,  human  genius  has 
won  its  most  signal  victories. 

Generation  after  generation  has  rolled  away,  age 
after  age  has  swept  silently  by  ;  but  each  has  swelled 
by  its  contributions  the  stream  of  discovery.  Myste- 
rious movements  have  been  unravelled  ;  mighty  laws 
have  been  revealed  ;  ponderous  orbs  have  been 
weighed  ;  one  barrier  after  another  has  given  way 
to  the  force  of  intellect  ;  until  the  mind,  majestic  in 
its  strength,  ha^  mounted,  step  by  step,  up  the  rocky 
height  of  its  self-built  pyramid,  from  whose  star- 
crowned  summit  it  looks  out  upon  the  grandeur  of  the 
universe  self-clothed  with  the  prescience  of  a  God. 


THE  DEA  TH-BED  OE  BENEDICT  ARNOLD.      77 

THE  DEATH-BED    OF    BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

By  George  Litpari),  Author,  Novelist.  B.  1822,  Pennsyl- 
vania  ;  d.    1854,    Pennsylvania. 

"  Benedict  Arnold,  a  talented  American  military  officer,  whose 
early  brilliant  exploits  are  obscured  by  his  attempt  to  betray  his 
native  country,  was  born  in  Connecticut,  in  1741,  and  died  in 
London,  1801." 

Fifty  years  ago,  in  a  rude  garret,  near  the  loneliest 
suburbs  of  the  city  of  London,  lay  a  dying  man.  He 
was  but  half  dressed,  though  his  legs  were  concealed 
in  long,  military  boots.  An  aged  minister  stood  beside 
the  rough  couch.  The  form  was  that  of  a  strong  man 
grown  old  through  care  more  than  age.  There  was  a 
face  that  you  might  look  upon  but  once,  and  yet  wear 
it  in  your  memory  forever. 

But  look  !  those  strong  arms  are  clutching  at  the 
vacant  air;  the  death  sweat  stands  in  drops  on  that 
bold  brow — the  man  is  dying.  Throb — throb — throb — 
beats  the  death-watch  in  the  shattered  wall.  "  Would 
you  die  in  the  faith  of  the  Christian  ?"  faltered  the 
preacher,  as  he  knelt  there  on  the  damp  floor. 

The  white  lips  of  the  death  stricken  man  trembled 
but  made- no  sound.  Then,  with  the  strong  agony  of 
death  upon  him,  he  rose  into  a  sitting  posture.  For 
*.he  first  time  he  spoke.  "  Christian  !  "  he  echoed, 
in  that  deep  tone  which  thrilled  the  preacher  to 
the  heart  :  "  Will  that  faith  give  me  back  my 
honor?" 

Suddenly  the  dying  man  arose  ;  he  tottered  along 
the  floor.  With  those  white  fingers,  whose  nails  were 
blue  with  the  death-chill,  he  threw  open  a  vali.se.     He 


78  THE  DEA  TH-BED  OF  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

drew  from  thence  a  faded  coat  of  blue,  faced  with  sil- 
ver, and  the  wreck  of  a  battle-flag. 

"  Look  ye,  priest !  this  faded  coat  is  spotted  with 
my  blood  !  "  he  cried,  as  old  memories  seemed  stirring 
at  his  heart.  "  This  coat  I  wore  when  I  first  heard 
the  news  of  Lexington  ;  this  coat  I  wore  when  I 
planted  the  banner  of  the  stars  on  Ticonderoga  !  that 
bullet-hole  was  pierced  in  the  fight  of  Quebec  ;  and 
now,  I  am  a — let  me  whisper  in  your  ear — traitor  ! " 
He  hissed  that  single  burning  word  into  the  minister's 
ear.  "  Now  help  me,  priest !  help  me  to  put  on  this 
coat  of  blue  ;  for  you  see  there  is  no  one  here  to  wipe 
the  cold  drops  from  my  brow  ;  no  wife,  no  child  ;  I 
must  meet  death  alone  ;  but  I  will  meet  him,  as  I  have 
met  him  in  battle,  without  a  fear  !  " 

'T'he  awe-stricken  preacher  started  back  from  the 
look  of  the  dying  man,  while  throb — throb — throb — 
beats  the  death-watch  in  the  shattered  wall.  "  Hush  ! 
silence  along  the  lines  there !  "  he  muttered,  in 
that  wild,  absent  tone,  as  though  speaking  to  the 
dead.  "  Silence  along  the  lines  !  not  a  word,  not  a 
word,  on  peril  of  your  lives  !  Hark  you,  Montgomery  ! 
we  will  meet  in  the  center  of  the  town  I  we  will  meet 
there  in  victory  or  die  !  Hist  !  silence,  my  men,  not 
a  whisper,  as  we  move  up  those  steep  rocks !  Now 
on,  my  boys — now  on  !  Men  of  the  wilderness,  we  will 
gain  the  town  !  Now  up  with  the  banner  of  the  stars, 
up  with  the  flag  of  freedom,  though  the  night  is  dark, 
and  the  snow  falls  !  Now  !  now,  one  more  blow  and 
Quebec  is  ours  !  " 

Who  is  this  strange  man  lying  there  alone,  in  this 


THE  EVE   OF   WATERLOO.  79 

rude  garret  ;  this  man,  who,  in  all  his  crimes,  still 
treasured  up  that  blue  uniform,  that  faded  flag  ?  Who 
is  this  being  of  horrible  remorse  ? 

Let  us  look  at  that  parchment  and  flag.  The  aged 
minister  unrolls  that  faded  flag  ;  it  is  a  blue  banner 
gleaming  with  thirteen  stars.  He  unrolls  that  parch- 
ment ;  it  is  a  colonel's  commission  in  the  Continental 
army,  addressed  to  Benedict  Arnold.  And  there, 
in  that  rude  hut,  unknown,  unwept,  in  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  desolation,  lies  the  corpse  of  the  patriot  and 
the  traitor. 


THE  EVE  OF   WATERLOO. 

By  George  Gordon  Noel,  Lord  Byron,  Poet.  B.  1878, 
England  ;  d.  1824,  Greece. 

The  allied  English  and  Prussian  armies,  commanded  by  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  defeated  the  French  under  the  Emperor 
Napoleon  I.  in  the  decisive  battle  of  Waterloo,  June  18,  1815. 
The  power  of  Napoleon  was  finally  destroyed  by  this  battle. 
Waterloo  is  a  village  of  Belgium,  near  Brussels. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell  ; 
But  hush  !    hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes   like  a  rising 
knell  ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?-   No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street  ; 


8o  THE  EVE   OF   WATERLOO. 

On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  : 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 
But  hark — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar  ! 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  ;  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar, 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star  ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white   lips, — "The    foe  !     They 
come  !  they  come  !  " 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 


A   EULOGY  ON  JOHN  BRIGHT.  8l 

Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass, 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe 
A.nd  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn,  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day, 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and   pent, 
Rider  and  horse,  friend,  foe,  in  one  red  burial  blent. 


A  EULOGY  ON  JOHx\  BRIGHT. 

By  W  I  [.LiAM  EwART  Gladstone,  Statesman,  Orator,  Finan- 
cier, Author.     B.  1809,  England. 

On  the  death  of  John  Bright  in  1889,  Mr.  Gladstone  delivered 
a  eulogy  upon  him  in  the  House  of  Commons.  These  two  great 
men  had  been  intimate  friends  until  1SS6,  when  Mr  Bright  vig- 
orously opposed  Mr.  Gladstone's  Home  Rule  policy  for  Ireland, 
and  the  friendship  was  broken. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  to  unite  so  many  attractive  quali- 
ties. If  I  had  to  dwell  upon  them  alone,  I  should 
present  a  dazzling  picture  to  the  world.  It  was  a 
happier  lot  to  teach  moral  lessons  by  simplicity,  con- 
sistency, unfailing  courage  and  constancy  of  life,  thus 


82  A   EULOGY  ON  JOHN  BRIGHT. 

presenting  a  combination  of  qualities  that  carried  us 
to  a  higher  atmosphere.  His  sympathies  were  not 
strong  only,  but  active  ;  .  .  .  .  Whatever  touched 
him  as  a  man  of  the  great  Anglo-Saxon  race,  whatever 
touched  him  as  a  subject,  obtained,  unasked,  his  sin- 
cere, earnest  and  enthusiastic  aid.  All  causes  hav- 
ing his  powerful  advocacy  made  a  distinct  advance  in 
the  estimation  of  the  world,  and  distinct  progress  to- 
ward triumphant  success.  Thus  it  has  come  about 
that  he  is  entitled  to  a  higher  eulogy  than  is  due  to 
success.  Of  mere  success,  indeed,  he  was  a  conspicu- 
ous example.  In  intellect  he  might  claim  a  most 
distinguished  place.  But  his  character  lies  deeper 
than  intellect,  deeper  than  eloquence,  deeper  than 
anything  that  can  be  described  or  that  can  be  seen 
upon  the  surface.  The  supreme  eulogy  that  is  his 
due  is  that  he  elevated  political  life  to  the  highest 
point — to  a  loftier  standard  than  it  had  ever  reached. 
He  has  bequeathed  to  his  country  a  character  that 
cannot  only  be  made  a  subject  for  admiration  and 
gratitude,  but — and  I  do  not  exaggerate  when  1  say 
it — that  can  become  an  object  of  reverential  contem- 
plation. In  the  encomiums  that  come  from  every 
quarter  there  is  not  a  note  of  dissonance.  I  do  not 
know  of  any  statesman  of  my  time  who  had  the  hap- 
piness of  receiving,  on  removal  from  this  passing 
world,  the  honor  of  approval  at  once  so  enthusiastic, 
so  universal  and  so  unbroken.  Yet  none  could  better 
dispense  with  the  tributes  of  the  moment,  because  the 
triumphs  of  his  life  were  triumphs  recorded  in  the 
advance  of  his  country  and  of  its  people.     His  name 


CARDINAL    WOLSEY.     "  83 

is  indelibly  written  in  tlie  annals  of  Time  and  on  the 
hearts  of  the  great  and  overspreading  race  to  which 
he  belonged,  whose  wide  extension  he  rejoiced  to  see, 
and  whose  power  and  prominence  he  believed  to  be 
full  of  promise  and  glory  for  the  best  interests  of 
mankind. 


CARDINAL  WOLSEY. 

By  William  Shakespeare,  Poet,  Dramatist,  Theater  Manager, 
Actor.     B.   1564,   England;  d.  1616,  at  Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Thomas  Wolsey  was  born  in  1471.  and  became  the  Prime 
Minister  of  Henry  VIII.  in  1515,  but  incurred  the  royal  displeasure 
by  opposing  the  King's  divorce  from  Queen  Catherine  and  mar- 
riage to  Anne  Boleyn.  In  1529  he  was  driven  in  disgrace  from 
the  Court,  and  died  ihe  following  year  in  the  monastery  of  Leicester. 
The  following  are  Griffith's  words  to  Queen  Catherine,  "  Henry 
VIII.,"  Act  IV.,  Scene  II. 

Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass;  their  virtues 
We  write  in  water.     May  it  please  your  highness 
To  hear  me  speak  his  good  now  ? 

This  cardinal. 
Though  from  an  humble  stock,  undoubtedly 
Was  fashioned  to  much  honor.     From  his  cradle, 
He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  good  one  ; 
Exceeding  wise,  fair  spoken,  and  persuading  : 
Lofty  and  sour  to  them  that  loved  him  not. 
But  to  those  men  that  sought  him,  sweet  as  summer. 
And  though  he  were  unsatisfied  in  getting, 
(Which  was  a  sin,)  yet  in  bestowing,  madam. 
He  was  most  princely.     Ever  witness  for  him 
Those  twins  of  learning,  that  he  raised  in  you, 
Ipswich,  and  O.xford  !  one  of  which  fell  with  him. 


84  THE  HOME. 

Unwilling  to  outlive  the  good  that  did  it ; 

The  other,  though  unfinished,  yet  so  famous, 

So  excellent  in  art,  and  still  so  rising, 

That  Christendom  shall  ever  speak  his  virtue. 

His  overthrow  heaped  happiness  upon  him  ; 

For  then,  and  not  till  then,  he  felt  himself, 

And  found  the  blessedness  of  being  little  : 

And  to  add  greater  honors  to  his  age 

Than  man  could  give  him,  he  died,  fearing  God. 


THE  HOME. 

By  Henry  Woodfen  Grady,  Orator,  Journalist.  B.  1851, 
Georgia  ;  d.  1889,  Georgia- 

I  WENT  to  Washington  the  other  day,  and  I  stood 
on  the  Capitol  Hill,  and  my  heart  beat  quick  as  I 
looked  at  the  towering  marble  of  my  country's  Capi- 
tol, and  the  mist  gathered  in  my  eyes  as  I  thought  of 
its  tremendous  significance,  and  the  armies,  and  the 
Treasury,  and  the  judges,  and  the  President,  and  the 
Congress,  and  the  Courts,  and  all  that  was  gathered 
there.  And  I  felt  that  the  sun  in  all  its  course  could 
not  look  down  on  a  better  sight  than  that  majestic 
home    of  a   republic   that    had    taught  the    world  its 

best  lessons  of  liberty Two  days  afterward  I 

went  to  visit  a  friend  in  the  country,  a  modest  man, 
with  a  quiet  country  home.  It  was  just  a  simple, 
unpretentious  house,  set  about  with  great  big  trees, 
encircled  in  meadow  and  field  rich  with  the  promise 
of  harvest.     The  fragrance  of  the  pink  and  the  holly- 


THE  HOME.  85 

hock  in  the  front  yard  was  mingled  with  the  aroma  of 
the  orchard  and  of  the  gardens,  and  resonant  with  the 
cluck  of  poultry  and  the  hum  of  bees.  Inside  was 
quiet,  cleanliness,  thrift  and  comfort.  There  was  the 
old  clock  that  had  welcomed  in  steady  measure  every 
new  comer  to  the  family,  that  had  ticked  the  solemn 
requiem  of  the  dead,  and  had  kept  company  with  the 
watcher  at  the  bedside.  There  were  the  b'ig  restful 
beds  and  the  old  open  fireplace,  and  the  old  family 
Bible,  thumbed  with  the  fingers  of  hands  long  since 
still,  and  wet  with  the  tears  of  eyes  long  since  closed, 
holding  the  simple  annals  of  the  family  and  the  heart' 
and  the  conscience  of  the  home. 

Outside,  there  stood  my  friend,  ....  master  of 
his  land  and  master  of  himself.  There  was  his  old 
father,  an  aged,  trembling  man,  but  happy  in  the 
heart  and  home  of  his  son.  And  as  they  started  to 
their  home,  the  hands  of  the  old  man  went  down  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder,  laying  there  the  unspeak- 
able blessing  of  the  honored  and  grateful  father,  and 
ennobling  it  with  the  knighthood  of  the  Fifth  Com- 
mandment  And  I  saw   the  night  come  down 

on  that  house,  falling  gently  as  from  the  wings  of 
the  unseen  dove.  And  the  old  man,  while  a  startled 
bird  called  from  the  forest,  and  the  trees  shrilled  with 
the  cricket's  cry,  and  the  stars  were  swarming  in  the 
sky,  got  the  family  around  him,  and,  taking  the  old 
liible  from  the  table,  called  them  to  their  knees,  (the 
little  baby  hiding  in  the  folds  of  its  mother's  dress,) 
while  he  closed  the  record  of  that  simple  day  by  call- 
ing down  God's  benediction  on  that   family  and  that 


86      DEDICATION  OF  GETTYSBURG  CEMETERY. 

home.  And  while  I  gazed  the  vision  of  that  marble 
Capitol  faded.  Forgotten  were  its  treasures  and  its 
majesty,  and  I  said  :  "  Oh,  surely  here  in  the  homes 
of  the  people  are  lodged  at  last  the  strength  and  the 
responsibility  of  this  Government,  the  hope  and  the 
promise  of  this  Republic." 


THE    DEDICATION    OF    GETTYSBURG 
CEMETERY. 

By  Abraham  Lincoln,  Statesman,  President  of  the  United 
States.  B.  1809,  Kentucky  ;  lived  in  Illinois  and  Washington. 
D.  C;  d.  Washington,  D.  C,  1865. 

The  battle  of  Gettysburg  was  fought  July  1-3,  1863,  between 
the  Union  and  Confederate  forces  under  General  Meade  and  Gen- 
eral Lee.  It  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  decisive  battles  of  the 
Civil  War.  "  At  the  dedication  of  the  cemetery,  in  which  the  slain 
of  this  battle  were  buried,  November  19,  1863,  President  Lincoln 
delivered  this  brief  address."  Gettysburg  is  a  small  town  in  the 
southern  part  of  Pennsylvania. 

Four  score  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers 
brought  forth  upon  our  continent  a  new  nation,  con- 
ceived in  Liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition 
that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  engaged 
in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or 
any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure. 

We  are  met  on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war. 
We  have  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  the  final 
resting-place  of  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that 
that  nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and 
proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a  larger  sense 
we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot 


THE   PIPES  AT  LUCK  NOW.  87 

hallow  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead, 
who  struggled  here  have  consecrated  it  far  beyond 
our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little 
note,  nor  long  remember,  what  we  say  here  ;  but  it 
can  never  forget  what  they  did  here. 

It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  to  the 
unfinished  work  that  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly  car- 
ried on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to 
the  great  task  remaining  before  us  ; — that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that 
cause  for  which  they  here  gave  the  last  full  measure 
of  devotion ;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  the 
dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain  ;  that  the  nation 
shall,  under  God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and 
that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people  and  for 
the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Poet.  B.  1807,  Massachu- 
setts. 

Lucknow,  the  Capital  of  Oude,  in  British  India,  was  besieged 
during  the  Sepoy  Rebellion  by  the  rebels,  and  after  a  long  and 
trying  siege  was  relieved  by  General  Havelock  in  1857. 

Pipes  of  the  misty  moorland. 

Voice  of  the  glen  and  hill, 
The  drone  of  highland  torrent. 

The  song  of  lowland  rill  ; 
Not  the  braes  of  broom  or  heather. 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain. 


88  THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

Dear  to  the  lowland  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer, 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle, 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade, 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled  and  nearer  crept, 
Round  and  round  the  jungle  serpent 
Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers, 

Pray  to-day  !  "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"  To-morrow  death's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread.' 

.  Oh,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 
Till  their  hopes  became  despair, 

And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 
Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 

Then  up  spoke  a  Scottish  maiden, 
With  her  ear  upon  the  ground, 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it .?  dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning. 
Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones; 

Alone  they  heard  the  drum  roll 
And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW.  89 

But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood, 

The  Highland  ear  was  true; 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  'tis  the  slogan  ! 

Will  ye  no  believe  it  noo  ?  " 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear. 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch; 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call. 
"  Hark  !  hear  ye  no  MacGregor's, 

The  grandest  o'  them  all  ?  " 

Oh,  they  listened  dumb  and  breathless. 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last, 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee, 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving, 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  !    The  march  of  Havelock 

And  the  piping  of  the  clans  ! " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife. 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan  call — 

Stirring  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust  cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew. 
Full  blithesomely  and  tenderly 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew. 


9°  PAIN  IN  A   PLEASURE  BOAT. 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Round  red  Dovvla's  golden  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Briton's  dearest, 

The  air  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  home-like  strain, 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  lowland  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer. 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle, 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 


PAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE  BOAT. 

By  Thomas  Hood,   Poet,  Humorist.     B.  1798,  England  ;    d. 

1845. 

Boatma?i — Shove  off  there  ! — ship  the  rudder,  Bill — 
cast  off !  she's  under  way  ! 

Mrs.  F. — She's  under  what  ? — I  hope  she's  not  !  good 
gracious,  what  a  spray  ! 

Boatman — Run  out  the  jib,  and  rig  the  boom  !  keep 
clear  of  those  two  brigs  ! 

Mrs.  F. — I  hope  they  don't  intend  some  joke  by  run- 
ning of  their  rigs  ! 


PAIN  IN  A    PLEASURE   BOAT.  91 

Boatman — Bill,  shift  them  bags  of  ballast  aft — she's 

rather  out  of  trim  1 
Mrs.  F. — Great  bags  of  stone  .'  they're  pretty  things 

to  help  a  boat  to  swim  ! 
Boatman — The  wind  is  fresh — if  she  don't  scud,  it's 

not  the  breeze's  fault  ! 
Mrs.  F, — Wind  fresh,  indeed  !     I  never  felt  the  air  so 

full  of  salt  ! 
Boatman — That  schooner,  Bill,  harn't  left  the   roads, 

with  oranges,  and  nuts  ! 
Mrs.  F. — If  seas  have   roads,  they're   very  rough — I 

never  felt  such  ruts  ! 
Boatman — It's   neap,  ye  see,   she's   heavy   lade,    and 

couldn't  pass  the  bar. 
Mrs.  F. — The  bar!  what,  roads  with  turnpikes  too? 

I  wonder  where  they  are  ! 
Boatman — Ho  !       Brig   ahoy  !    hard    up  !    hard   up  ! 

that  lubber  cannot  steer  ! 
Mrs.  F. — Yes,  yes — hard   up   upon   a  rock  !     I  know 

some  danger's  near  ! 
Lord,  there's  a  wave  !  it's  coming  in  !  and  roaring- 
like  a  bull  ! 
Boatman — Nothing,    Ma'am,    but   a    little    slop  !    go 

large,  Bill  !  keep  her  full  ! 
Mrs.  F. — What,  keep   her   full  !    what   daring  work  I 

when  full,  she  must  go  down  ! 
Boatman — Why,  Bill,  it  lulls  !  ease  off  a  bit — it's  com- 
ing off  the  town  ! 
Steady  your  helm  !    we'll  clear  the  Pint !    lay  right 

for  yonder  pink  ! 


92  PAIN  IN  A    PLEASURE  BOAT. 

Mrs.    F. — Be    steady — well,   I   hope   they  can  !    but 

they've  got  a  pint  of  drink  ! 
Boatman — Bill,  give   that  sheet  another  haul — she'll 

fetch  it  up  this  reach. 
Mrs.  F. — I'm  getting   rather  pale,  I   know,  and   they 

see  it  by  that  speech  ! 
I    wonder   what   it    is,    now,  but — I  never   felt    so 

queer  ! 
Boatman — Bill,  mind  your  luff — why,  Bill,  I  say,  she's 

yawing — keep  her  near  ! 
Mrs.  F. — Keep  near  !  we're  going  further  off ;  the 

land's  behind  our  backs. 
Boatman — Be  easy,  Ma'am,  it's  all  correct,  that's  only 

'cause  we  tacks  ; 
We  shall  have  to  beat  about  a  bit — Bill,  keep  her 

out  to  sea. 
Airs.  F. — Beat  who   about  ?  keep  who  at  sea  ? — how 

black  they  look  at  me  ! 
Boatman — It's  veering   round — I  knew  it  would  !  off 

with  her  head  !  stand  by  ! 
Mrs.  F. — Off  with   her  head  !  whose  ?  where  ?  what 

with  ?  an  axe  I  seem  to  spy  ! 
Boatman — She  can't  keep  her  own,  you  see  ;  we  shall 

have  to  pull  her  in  ! 
Mrs.  F. — They'll  drown  me,  and  take  all  I  have  !  my 

life's  not  worth  a  pin  ! 
Boatman — Look  out,  you  know,  be   ready,  Bill — just 

when  she  takes  the  sand  ! 
Mrs.  F. — The  sand — O   Lord  !  to   stop  my  mouth  ! 

how  everything  is  planned  ! 


THE   CENTENNIAL   OF  1876.  93 

Boatman — The  handspike,  Bill — quick,  bear  a  hand  ! 
now.  Ma'am,  just  step  ashore  ! 

Mrs.  F. — What  !  aint  I  going  to  be  killed — and  wel- 
tered in  my  gore  ? 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised  !  but  I'll  not  go  a-sailing 
any  more  ! 


THE  CENTENNIAL  OF  1876. 

By  William  Maxwell  Evarts,  Statesman,  Jurist,  Senator 
from  New  York.     B.  1818,  Massachusetts. 

Extract  from  the  "  Centennial  Oration  "  delivered  at  Phila- 
delphia, July  4,  1876. 

The  spirit  of  the  nation  is  at  the  highest — its  tri- 
umph over  the  inborn,  inbred  perils  of  the  Constitu- 
tion has  chased  away  all  fears,  justified  all  hopes,  and 
with  universal  joy  we  greet  this  day.  We  have  not 
proved  unworthy  of  a  great  ancestry  ;  we  had  the 
virtue  to  uphold  what  they  so  wisely,  so  firmly  estab- 
lished. With  these  proud  possessions  of  the  past, 
with  powers  matured,  with  principles  settled,  with 
habits  formed,  the  nation  passes  as  it  were  from  pre- 
paratory growth  to  responsible  development  of  charac- 
ter and  the  steady  performance  of  duty.  What  labors 
await  it,  what  trials  shall  attend  it,  what  triumphs  for 
human  nature,  what  glory  for  itself,  are  prepared  for 
this  people  in  the  coming  century,  we  may  not  assume 
to  foretell.  "  One  generation  passeth  away  and  another 
generation  cometh,  but  the  earth  abideth  forever," 
and  we  reverently  hope  that  these  our  constituted 
'iberties  shall  be  maintained   to  the  unending  line  of 


94  ARNOLD    VVINKELRIED. 

our  posterity,  and  so  long   as  the  earth  itself  shall 
endure. 

In  the  great  procession  of  nations,  in  the  great  march 
of  humanity,  we  hold  our  place.  Peace  is  our  duty, 
peace  is  our  policy.  In  its  arts,  its  labors,  and  its 
victories,  then,  we  find  scope  for  all  our  energies, 
rewards  for  all  our  ambitions,  renown  enough  for  all 
our  love  of  fame.  In  the  august  presence  of  so  many 
nations  which,  by  their  representatives,  have  done  us 
the  honor  to  be  witnesses  of  our  commemorative  joy 
and  gratulation,  and  in  sight  of  the  collective  evidences 
of  the  greatness  of  their  own  civilization  with  which 
they  grace  our  celebration,  we  may  well  confess  how 
much  we  fall  short,  how  much  we  have  to  make  up, 
in  the  emulative  competitions  of  the  times.  Yet  even 
in  this  presence,  and  with  a  just  deference  to  the  age, 
the  power,  the  greatness  of  the  other  nations  of  the 
earth,  we  do  not  fear  to  appeal  to  the  opinion  of  man- 
kind, whether,  as  we  point  to  our  land,  our  people,  and 
our  laws,  the  contemplation  should  not  inspire  us  with 
a  lover's  enthusiasm  for  our  country. 


ARNOLD   WINKELRIED. 

By  James  Montgo.mery,  Poet.  B.  1771,  England;  d.  1854, 
England. 

The  battle  of  Sempach,  fought  July  9,  1386,  between  the  Aus- 
trians  and  soldiers  of  the  Confederate  Swiss  Cantons,  was  chiefly 
remarkable  for  the  heroism  and  martyrdom  of  Arnold  of  Winkelried, 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  ! "  he  cried — 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died. 


ARNOLD    WINKELRIED.  95 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 

A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ; 

Impregnable  their  front  appears, 

All-horrent  with  projected  spears. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 

Contended  for  their  fatherland  ; 

Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had  broke 

From  manly  necks  the  ignoble  yoke  ; 

Marshalled  once  more  at  freedom's  call, 

They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 

Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 

The  fire  of  conflict  burned  within  ; 

The  battle  trembled  to  begin  : 

Yet,  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground, 

Point  for  assault  was  nowhere  found  ; 

Where'er  the  impatient  Switzers  gazed. 

The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  ; 

That  line  'twere  suicide  to  meet. 

And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet. 

How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves, 

To  leave  their  homes  the  haunts  of  slaves? 

Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread, 

With  clanking  chains,  above  their  head  ? 

It  must  not  be  :  this  day,  this  hour. 
Annihilates  the  invader's  power  ! 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field — 
She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield, 
She  must  not  fall  ;  her  better  fate 


9^  ARNOLD    WINKELRIED. 

Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 

Few  were  the  numbers  she  could  boast, 

Yet  every  freeman  was  a  host, 

And  felt  as  'twere  a  secret  known 

That  one  should  turn  the  scale  alone, 

While  each  unto  himself  was  he 

On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one,  indeed  ; 

Behold  him — Arnold  Winkelried  ! 

There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  Fame 

The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 

Unmarked,  he  stood  amid  the  throng, 

In  rumination  deep  and  long. 

Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace, 

The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face, 

And,  by  the  motion  of  his  form. 

Anticipate  the  bursting  storm, 

And,  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow, 

Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But  'twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done — 

The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  ! 

'*  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried. 

Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide, 

As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 

Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp , 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  ! "  he  cried  ; 

Their  keen  points  crossed  from  side  to  side  ; 

He  bowed  amidst  them  like  a  tree. 

And  thus  made  way  for  liberty. 


CHRISTIANITY,    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAND.        91 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly — 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  they  cry, 

And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart, 

As  rushed  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart. 

While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall. 

Rout,  ruin,  panic,  seized  them  all  ; 

An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 

A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free  ; 
Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty. 


A   NATION'S    HONOR. 
By  Frederick  R.  Coudert,  Lawyer,  New  York. 

To-DAY  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain  are 
striving  to  crown  the  glories  of  this  dying  century 
with  something  better  and  greater  than  the  world  has 
seen.  It  is  proposed  to  abolish  homicide  as  a  test  of 
international  right  by  submitting  causes  of  dispute  to 
the  calm  judgment  of  wise  men,  a  solution  so  simple 
and  so  economical  that  it  requires  great  ingenuity  to 
assail  it  with  plausible  reasons.  All  concede  that  in 
theory  the  plan  is  admirable,  and  that  in  practice  on  a 
limited  scale  it  has  proved  of  priceless  value  ;  that  it 
is  infinitely  more  likely  to  produce  rational  results 
than  the  only  other  alternative  —  viz.,  resort  to  war. 

]jut,  say  the  objectors,  what  if  our  national  honor 
should  become  involved  .-* 

A  nation's  honor,  I  would  venture  to  say,  is  never 
compromised  by  temperance  or  injured  by  forbear- 
ance.    A  nation's  honor  is  not  served  by  rash  coun- 


gS     RAPHAEL'S  ACCOUNT  OF   THE    CREATION. 

sels,  nor  by  violent  impulses  recklessly  indulged  in. 
It  is  indeed  a  frail  and  delicate  possession  if  it  cannot 
live  in  an  atmosphere  of  peace  :  it  is  a  dangerous  one 
if  it  is  tarnished  by  friendly  discussion  and  a  disposi- 
tion to  hearken  to  the  voice  of  justice. 

National  honor  may  perhaps  shine  all  the  brighter 
when  a  great  nation  is  slow  to  admit  that  her  just 
dignity  may  be  imperiled  by  the  act  of  others.  The 
honor  of  a  nation  is  in  her  keeping,  not  in  that  of  her 
neighbors  ;  it  cannot  be  lost  save  by  her  own  act.  To 
preserve  her  honor  should  be  her  main  object  and 
purpose,  but  she  should  not  readily  believe  those  who 
tell  her  that  by  hard  blows  alone  may  its  integrity  be 
protected. 

A  nation's  honor  consists  in  fidelity  to  her  engage- 
ments, in  carrying  out  her  contracts  in  spirit  as  in  the 
letter,  in  paying  her  just  debts,  in  respecting  the  rights 
of  others,  in  promoting  the  welfare  of  her  people,  in 
the  encouragement  of  truth,  in  teaching  obedience  to 
the  law,  in  cultivating  honorable  peace  with  the 
world. 

RAPHAEL'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  CREATION. 

By  John  Milton,  Poet.     B.  1608,  England  ;  d.  1674. 
Milton  wrote  the  great  epic  "  Paradise    Lost,"  of  which  this 
extract  is  a  part,  while  totally  blind. 

Heaven  opened  wide 
Her  ever-during  gates — harmonious  sound — 
On  golden  hinges  moving,  to  let  forth 
The  King  of  Glory,  in  his  powerful  Word 
And  spirit  coming  to  create  new  worlds. 
On  heavenly  ground  they  stood  ;  and,  from  the  shore, 


RAPHAEL'S  ACCOUNT  OF   THE  CREATION.      99 

They  viewed  the  vast,  immeasurable  abyss, 
Outrageous  as  a  sea,  dark,  wasteful,  wild, 
Up  from  the  bottom  turned  by  furious  winds 
And  surging  waves,  as  mountains  to  assault 
Heaven's  height,  and  with  the  center  mix  the  pole. 

"Silence,  ye  troubled  waves,  and  thou  deep,  peace  ? '' 
Said  then  the  omnific  Word  ;  "your  discord  end  I  " 
Nor  stayed,  but,  on  the  wings  of  cherubim 
Uplifted,  in  paternal  glory  rode 
Far  into  chaos,  and  the  world  unborn  ; 
For  chaos  heard  his  voice  :  him  all  his  train 
Followed  in  bright  procession,  to  behold 
Creation,  and  the  wonders  of  his  might. 

Then  stayed  the  fervid  wheels,  and  in  his  hand 
He  took  the  golden  compasses,  prepared 
In  God's  eternal  store,  to  circumscribe 
This  universe,  and  all  created  things  : 
One  foot  he  centered,  and  the  other  turned 
Round  through  the  vast  profundity  obscure. 
And  said,  "  Thus  far  extend,  thus  far  thy  bounds, 
This  be  thy  just  circumference,  O  world  !  " 

Thus  God  the  heaven  created,  thus  the  earth, 
Matter  unformed  and  void  ;  darkness  profound 
Covered  the  abyss  ;  but  on  the  watery  calm 
His  brooding  wings  the  Spirit  of  God  outspread, 
And  vital  virtue  infused,  and  vital  warmth 
Throughout  the  fluid  mass  ; 

.     .     .     .     then  founded,  then  conglobed 
Like  things  to  like,  the  rest  to  several  place 


loo  TYRE,    VENICE,   AND  ENGLAND. 

Disparted,  and  between  spun  out  the  air  ; 
And  earth,  self-balanced,  on  her  center  hung. 


TYRE,  VENICE,  AND  ENGLAND. 

By  John  Ruskin.  B.  1819,  London.  "  The  most  eloquent 
and  origfinal  of  all  writers  upon  art." 

The  following  e.xtract  is  contained  in  "  The  Stones  of  Venice," 

published  in  1851-1853. 

Since  the  first  dominion  of  men  was  asserted  over 
the  ocean,  three  thrones,  of  mark  beyond  all  others, 
have  been  set  upon  its  sands  :  the  thrones  of  Tyre, 
Venice,  and  England.  Of  the  First  of  these  great 
powers  only  the  memory  remains  ;  of  the  Second,  the 
ruin  ;  the  Third,  which  inherits  their  greatness,  if  it 
forget  their  example,  may  be  led  through  prouder 
eminence  to  less  pitied  destruction. 

The  exaltation,  the  sin,  and  the  punishment  of  Tyre 
have  been  recorded  for  us,  in  perhaps  the  most  touch- 
ing words  ever  uttered  by  the  Prophets  of  Israel  against 
the  cities  of  the  stranger.  But  we  read  them  as  a 
lovely  song  ;  and  close  our  ears  to  the  sternness  of 
their  warning  ;  for  the  very  depth  of  the  fall  of  Tyre 
has  blinded  us  to  its  reality,  and  we  forget,  as  we  watch 
the  bleaching  of  the  rocks  between  the  sunshine  and 
the  sea,  that  they  were  once  "  as  in  Eden,  the  garden 
of  God." 

Her  successor,  like  her  in  perfection  of  beauty, 
though  of  less  endurance  of  dominion,  is  still  left  for 
our  beholding  in  the  final  period  of  her  decline  :  a 
ghost  upon  the  sands  of  the  sea,  so  weak — so  quiet, — 


OUR  FLAG  AT  APIA.  lOl 

so  bereft  of  all  but  her  loveliness,  that  we  might  well 
doubt,  as  we  watched  her  faint  reflection  in  the  mirage 
of  the  lagoon,  which  was  the  City,  and  which  the 
Shadow. 

Let  us  trace  the  lines  of  this  image  before  it  be  for- 
ever lost  ;  let  us  record  as  far  as  we  may,  the  warning 
which  seems  to  be  uttered  by  every  one  of  the  fast- 
gaining  waves  that  beat  like  passing  bells  against  the 
Stones  of  Venice.  [From  a  reverent  contemplation 
of  the  history  of  the  fading  city,  England  may  find 
the  props  that  give  endurance  to  dominion,  the  ideals 
that  clothe  greatness  in  beauty.] 


OUR  FLAG  AT  APIA. 

By  Annie  Bronson  King,  Author.     Lives  in  Medina,  Ohio. 

Across  the  peach-blow  sky  of  spring 
The  storm-dark  clouds  are  looming ; 

With  sullen  voice  the  breakers  ring, 
The  thunder  loudly  booming. 

The  huddled  war  ships  ride  apace, 

Each  at  her  anchor  straining  ; 
Black,  black  is  all  of  heaven's  face  ; 

It  lightens  'twixt  the  raining. 

Like  crumpled  rose  leaves  the  mist  edge 

The  hidden  reef  enwreathing, 
But  cruel  as  hell  the  jagged  ledge 

Beneath  those  waters  seething. 


102  OUR  FLAG  AT  APIA. 

On,  on  they  come,  the  poor  dumb  things, 
The  storm  winds  fiercely  driving  ; 

At  her  dread  work  each  breaker  sings. 
For  conquest  madly  striving. 

"  If  we  must  die  " — the  leader's  voice 
Outswelled  the  roar  of  thunder — 

"  It  is  our  own  and  solemn  choice 
To  die  our  dear  flag  under. 

"  For  as  to-day  the  battle-field 
Is  where  the  seas  are  lying, 

We  claim  a  right  we  cannot  yield, 
To  glory  in  our  dying." 

He  ceased  ;  upon  the  topmost  mast 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  were  floating. 

The  sight  is  like  a  trumpet  blast, 
And  other  ships  quick  noting, 

Up  to  the  sky  there  sounds  a  cheer 
That  starts  the  echoes  flying. 

Back  comes  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  gallant  hearts,  though  dying. 

A  moment's  space,  the  waves  in  brine 

Baptize  the  flag  low  lying. 
And  from  the  breakers  comes  no  sign 

Of  living  or  of  dying. 

***** 

Oh  flag,  dear  flag,  once  more  thy  name, 

As  always  in  thy  story, 
Has  set  a  thousand  hearts  aflame 

For  thee  and  for  thy  glory. 


A    DEFENCE    OF   THE   IRISH  PARTY.         103 

A   DEFENCE   OF    THE   IRISH    PARTY. 

By  Charles  Russell,  Statesman,  Orator.  Lord  Chief  Justice 
of  England.     B.  1833,  Ireland. 

An  extract  from  the  opening  speech  in  behalf  of  the  defense 
before  the  Parnell  Commission  in  April,  1889.  This  Commission 
was  appointed  under  an  Act  of  Parliament  to  investigate  charges 
made  against  Mr.  Parnell  and  the  Irish  Party  by  the  London 
Times, 

My  Lords,  we  have  endeavored  to  lay  our  case  be- 
fore you,  to  the  best  of  our  ability,  in  some  methodical 
fashion.  We  have  shown  that  there  was  a  failure  on 
the  part  of  Parliament  to  meet  the  wants  of  the  time 
by  offering  to  the  tenants  of  Ireland,  in  their  distress, 
the  means  needed  for  temporary  protection  from  the 
civil  process  of  ejectment.  We  have  shown  your 
Lordships  that  the  landlord  class  failed  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  times  to  meet  broadly,  generously  and 
patriotically  the  necessities  that  were  pressing  upon 
their  unhappy  countrymen. 

There  are  two  parties  in  Ireland.  The  first  look 
for  support,  for  influence,  to  the  people  of  Ireland, 
while  the  other  party  look  for  support  and  influence, 
not  to  the  people  among  whom  they  live  and  from 
whom  they  derive  their  maintenance,  but  to  an  influ- 
ence external  to  Ireland. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  how  little  influence  the 
people  in  Ireland  have  in  the  management  of  even  the 
smallest  of  their  local  affairs,  and  how  constantly  the 
alien  race  looms  up  before  their  eyes  as  the  omni- 
present, controlling  power. 

I  would  say  this,  my  Lords,  that  the  best  guarantee 


I04        A    DEFENCE   OF   THE  IRISH  PARTY. 

for  peace  and  order  and  the  prevention  of  the  recur- 
rence of  crime,  of  the  sad  and  painful  crime  which 
your  Lordships  have  been  inquiring  into,  is  in  the  be- 
lief and  in  the  hope,  strong  in  Irish  breasts  to-day, 
that  the  time  is  coming  when  the  state  of  things  that 
has  caused  this  must  come  to  an  end. 

My  Lords,  for  their  work  in  bringing  this  consum- 
mation, devoutly  to  be  wished,  closer  at  hand,  the 
Irish  party  stand  before  your  Lordships'  bar  to-day. 
They  can  point  to  marvelous  work  in  the  last  ten 
years.  Within  the  beginning  of  those  years  it  is  no 
exaggeration  to  say  that  the  Irish  peasant  farmer 
stood  trembling,  "  with  bated  breath  and  whispering 
humbleness,"  in  the  presence  of  landlord,  agent  and 
bailiff  ;  for  that  man's  fate  was  verily  in  the  hollow  of 
their  hands.  He  had  no  spur  to  industry,  and  no 
security  that  he  should  reap  what  he  had  sown.  Then 
secret  organizations  burrowed  beneath  the  surface  of 
society  and  constituted  a  great  political  and  social 
factor  in  the  land.  To-day,  the  great  mass  of  the 
people  have  been  won  to  bending  their  energies  and 
fixing  their  hopes  upon  constitutional  means  of  re- 
dress. 

My  Lords,  I  hope  this  inquiry  at  its  present  stage 
and  its  future  development  will  serve  more  even  than 
a  vindication  of  individuals,  that  it  will  remove  pain- 
ful misconceptions  as  to  the  character,  the  actions, 
the  motives,  the  aims  of  the  Irish  people  ;  that  it  will 
remove  grievous  distrust,  and  hasten  the  day  of  true 
union  and  real  reconciliation  between  the  people  of 
Ireland  and  the  people  of  Great  Britain  ;  and  that 


DAS   LIGHT  DES  AL'GES.  105 

with  the  advent  of  that  true  union  and  reconciliation, 
there  will  be  dispelled,  and  dispelled  forever,  the 
cloud,  the  weighty  cloud,  that  has  rested  upon  the 
history  of  a  noble  race  and  dimmed  the  glory  of  a 
mighty  empire. 


DAS  LIGHT  DES  AUGES. 

By  JoHANN  Christoph  Friedrich  von  Schiller,  Poet.     B 
1759,  Wiirtemberg  ;  d.  1805. 

From  'William  Tell,"  Act  I.,  Scene  IV. 

O,  EINE  edle  Himmelsgabe  ist 

Das  Licht  des  Auges — AUe  Wesen  leben 

Vom  Lichte,  jedes  gliickliche  Geschopf — 

Die  Pflanze  selbst  kehrt  freudig  sich  zum  Lichte. 

Und  er  muss  sitzcn,  fUhlend,  in  der  Nacht, 

Im  ewig  Finstern — ihn  erquickt  nicht  mehr 

Der  Matten  warmes  Grlin,  der  Blumen  Schmelz, 

Die  rothen  Firnen  kann  er  nicht  mehr  schauen — 

Sterben  ist  nichts — doch  leben  und  nicht  sehen, 

Das  ist  ein  Ungluck — Warum  seht  ihr  mich 

So  jammernd  an  ?     Ich  hab'  zwei  frische  Augen, 

Und  kann  dem  blinden  Vater  keines  geben, 

Nicht  einen  Schimmer  von  dem  Meer  des  Lichts, 

Das  glanzvoll,  blendend,  mir  ins  Auge  dringt. 


io6   SCHOOLS  AND  COLLEGES  OF  OUR  COUNTRY. 

THE  SCHOOLS  AND  COLLEGES  OF  OUR 

COUNTRY. 

By  Charles  William  Eliot,  Educator,  President  Harvard 
University.     B.  1834,  Massachusetts. 

Delivered  in  response  to  a  toast  given  to  President  Eliot  at  a 
banquet  in  New  Yoric  City,  April  30,  1889,  to  distinguished  guests, 
at  the  Washington  Centennial. 

That  brief  phrase — the  schools  and  colleges  of  the 
United  States — is  a  formal  and  familiar  one  ;  but 
what  imagination  can  grasp  the  infinitude  of  human 
affections,  powers,  and  wills  which  it  really  comprises? 

Imagine  the  eight  million  children  actually  in  at- 
tendance at  the  elementary  schools  of  the  country 
brought  before  your  view.  They  would  fill  this  great 
house  sixteen  hundred  times,  and  every  time  it  would 
be  packed  with  boundless  loves  and  hopes.  Each 
unit  in  that  mass  speaks  of  a  glad  birth,  a  brightened 
home,  a  mother's  pondering  heart,  a  father's  careful 
joy.  In  all  that  multitude  every  little  heart  bounds 
and  every  eye  shines  at  the  name  of  Washington. 

Next  picture  to  yourselves  the  sixty  thousand  stu- 
dents in  colleges  and  universities — selected  youth  of 
keen  intelligence,  wide  reading,  and  high  ambition. 
They  are  able  to  compare  Washington  with  the  great- 
est men  of  other  times  and  countries,  and  to  appre- 
ciate the  unique  quality  of  his  renown.  They  can  set 
him  beside  the  heroes  of  romance  and  history — beside 
David,  Alexander,  Pericles,  Caesar,  Charlemagne, 
John  Hampden,  William  the  Silent,  Peter  of  Russia, 
and  Frederick  the  Great,  only  to  find  him  a  nobler 
human  type  than  any  one  of  them,  completer  in  his 


SCHOOLS  AND  COLLEGES  OF  OUR  COUNTRY.    107 

nature,  happier  in  his  cause,  and  more  fortunate  in  the 
great  issues  of  his  career.  They  recognize  in  him  a 
simple,  stainless,  and  robust  character,  which  served 
with  dazzling  success  the  precious  cause  of  human 
progress  through  liberty,  and  so  stands,  like  the  sunlit 
peak  of  the  Matterhorn,  unmatched  in  all  the  world. 

And  what  shall  I  say  on  behalf  of  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  teachers  of  the  United  States  ? 
They  deserve  some  mention  to-day.  None  of  them 
are  rich  or  famous  ;  most  of  them  are  poor,  retiring, 
and  unnoticed  ;  but  it  is  they  who  are  building  a  per- 
ennial monument  to  Washington.  It  is  they  who  give 
him  a  million-tongued  fame.  They  make  him  live 
again  in  the  young  hearts  of  successive  generations, 
and  fix  his  image  there  as  the  American  idea  of  a 
public  servant. 

It  is  through  the  schools  and  colleges  and  the 
national  literature  that  the  heroes  of  any  people  win 
lasting  renown  ;  and  it  is  through  these  same  agen- 
cies that  a  nation  is  molded  into  the  likeness  of  its 
heroes.  This  local  commemoration  of  one  great 
event  in  the  life  of  Washington  and  of  the  United 
States  is  well,  but  it  is  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
incessant  memorial  of  him  which  the  schools  and  col- 
leges of  the  country  maintain  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration. What  a  reward  is  Washington's  !  What  an 
influence  is  his,  and  will  be  !  One  mind  and  will 
transfused  by  sympathetic  instruction  into  millions, 
one  character  a  standard  for  millions,  one  life  a  pat- 
tern for  all  public  men,  teaching  what  greatness  is 
and  what  the  pathway  to  undying  fame. 


lo8  THE  BATTLE   OF  IVRY. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRY. 

By  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  Statesman,  Orator,  Histo- 
rian, Poet,  Essayist.     B.  1800,  England  ;  d.  1859,  London. 

Henry  IV.,  King  of  France  and  Navarre,  the  great  leader  of 
the  Protestants  of  France,  won  the  battle  of  Ivry  in  1590,  defeat- 
ing the  army  of  the  Leaguers,  under  the  Duke  of  Mayenne, 
general  of  the  Cardinal  Bourbon,  who  had  been  proclaimed  king 
unrightfully  instead  of  Henry. 

Appenzel  is  the  name  of  a  Swiss  Canton. 

Count  Egmont,  of  Flanders,  led  a  body  of  troops  sent  by 
Philip  IL,  of  Spain,  to  aid  the  Leaguer.s. 

Coligni,  Admiral  of  France,  a  noted  Protestant,  was  killed  at 
the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Day. 

Now  glory  to  the   Lord  of    Hosts,   from  whom  all 

glories  are ! 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of 

Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  the 

dance, 
Through   thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  O 

pleasant  land  of  France  ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of 

the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 

daughters  ; 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joys. 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 

walls  annoy. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 

of  war ; 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  forIvry,and  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 

O  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn 
of  day, 


THE  BATTLE   OF  IVRY.  109 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long 

array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish 

spears  I 
There  rode  the  blood  of  false  Lorraine  the  curses  of 

our  land  ! 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in 

his  hand  ; 
And,  as  we  looked   on   them,  we  thought  of  Seine's 

empurpled  flood 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his 

blood  ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate 

of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  Name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  has  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor 

drest, 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 

crest  : 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye  ; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 

and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 

to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our 

lord,  the  King!  " 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall, — as  fall  full  well  he 

may. 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, — ■ 


no  THE  BATTLE    OF  IVRY. 

Press  where  you  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amid  the 

ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

]H(.urrah  !  the  foes  are  moving  !     Hark  to  the  mingled 

din 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring 

culverin  ! 
The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's 

plain. 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of   Guelders  and  Al- 

mayne. 
Now,  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 

France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now,  upon  them  with  the 

lance ! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears 

in  rest, 
A  thousand   knights  are   pressing  close  behind   the 

snow-white  crest  ; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a 

guiding  star. 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed    the   helmet  of 

Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours  !     Mayenne  hath 

turned  his  rein, 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter — the  Flemish  Count 

is  slain  ! 
Their   ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a 

Biscay  gale  : 


THE   BATTLE   OF  IVRY.  m 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 

cloven  mail. 
And  then   we  thought  on  vengeance,   and  all  along 

our  van 
"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew  !  "  was  passed  from  man 

to  man  ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  then, — "  No  Frenchman 

is  my  foe  ; 
Down,    down    with    every   foreigner !    but   let    your 

brethren  go." 
O  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in   friendship  or 

in  war. 
As  our  sovereign   lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of 

Navarre  ! 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  !     Ho  !  matrons  of  Lucerne  .' 
Weep,  weep  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never 

shall  return  ! 
Ho !  Philip,  send  for  charity  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor 

spearmen's  souls  ! 
Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms 

be  bright  ! 
Ho !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward 

to-night  ! 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath 

raised  the  slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise  and  the  valor  of 

the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are! 
And    glory  to  our  sovereign    lord,    King    Henry   of 

Navarre  ! 


112  A    TYPICAL    DUTCHMAN. 


THE  TYPICAL  DUTCHMAN. 

By  Henry  Jackson  Van  Dyke,  Clergyman,  Author.  B. 
1852,  Pennsylvania. 

Taken  from  a  speech  delivered  at  a  banquet  of  the  "  Holland 
Society,"  in  New  York  City,  January  10,  1890. 

Who  is  the  typical  Dutchman  ?  Rembrandt,  the 
splendid  artist  ;  Erasmus,  the  brilliant  scholar  ;  Cos- 
ter, the  inventor  of  printing  ;  Leeuenhock,  the  pro- 
found scientist ;  Grotius,  the  great  lawyer  ;  Barendz, 
the  daring  explorer  ;  DeWitt,  the  skilful  statesman  ; 
Van  Tromp,  the  trump  of  admirals  ;  William  the 
Silent,  heroic  defender  of  liberty  against  a  world  of 
tyranny  ;  William  HI.,  the  emancipator  of  England, 
whose  firm,  peaceful  hand,  just  two  centuries  ago,  set 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  free  to  fulfil  its  mighty  destiny — 
what  hero,  artist,  philosopher,  discoverer,  lawgiver, 
admiral,  general  or  monarch  shall  we  choose  from  the 
long  list  of  Holland's  illustrious  dead  to  stand  as  the 
typical  Dutchman  ? 

Nay,  not  one  of  these  men,  famous  as  they  were, 
can  fill  the  pedestal  of  honor.  For  though  their  glo- 
rious achievements  have  lent  an  undying  lustre  to  the 
name  of  Holland,  the  qualities  that  really  created  her 
and  made  her  great,  lifted  her  in  triumph  from  the 
sullen  sea,  massed  her  inhabitants  like  a  living  bul- 
wark against  oppression,  filled  her  cities  with  the  light 
of  learning  and  her  homes  with  the  arts  of  peace,  cov- 
ered the  ocean  with  her  ships  and  the  islands  with 
her  colonies — the  qualities  that  made  Holland  great 
were  the  qualities  of  the  common  people.     The  ideal 


THE  NARROWNESS  OF  SPECIALTIES.       1^3 

character  of  the  Dutch  race  is  not  an  exceptional 
genius,  but  a  plain,  brave,  straightforward,  kind- 
hearted,  Hberty-loving,  hiw-abiding  citizen — a  man 
with  a  healthy  conscience,  a  good  digestion  and  a 
cheerful  determination  to  do  his  duty  in  the  sphere  of 
life  to  which  God  has  called  him. 


THE  NARROWNESS  OF  SPECIALTIES. 

By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Novelist,  Statesman. 
B.  1803,  England  ;  d.  1873. 

We  men  are  not  fragments — we  are  wholes  ;  we  are 
not  types  of  single  qualities — we  are  realities  of  mixed, 
various,  countless  combinations.  Therefore  I  say  to 
each  man  :  As  far  as  you  can — partly  for  excellence 
in  your  special  mental  calling,  principally  for  the  com- 
pletion of  your  end  in  existence — strive,  while  improv- 
ing your  one  talent,  to  enrich  your  whole  capital  as  a 
Man.  It  is  in  this  way  that  you  escape  from  the 
wretched  narrow-mindedness  which  is  the  character- 
istic of  every  one  who  cultivates  his  specialty  alone. 
Take  any  specialty  ;  dine  with  a  distinguished  mem- 
ber of  Parliament — the  other  guests  all  members  of 
Parliament  except  yourself — you  go  away  shrugging 
your  shoulders.  All  the  talk  has  been  that  of  men 
who  seem  to  think  that  there  is  nothing  in  life  worth 
talking  about  but  the  party  squabbles  and  jealousies 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  Go  and  dine  next  day 
with  an  eminent  author — all  the  guests  authors 
except  yourself.  As  the  wine  circulates  the  talk  nar- 
rows to  the  last  publications,  with,  now  and  then,  on 


114    THE  APPLE-DUMPLINGS  AND  GEORGE  III. 

the  part  of  the  successful  author  present,  a  refining 
eulogium  on  some  dead  writer,  in  implied  disparage- 
ment of  some  living  rival.  He  wants  to  depreciate 
Dickens,  and  therefore  he  extols  Fielding.  If  Field- 
ing were  alive  and  Dickens  were  dead,  how  he  would 
extol  Dickens  !  Go  the  third  day  ;  dine  with  a  trader, 
all  the  other  guests  being  gentlemen  on  the  stock 
exchange.  A  new  specialty  is  before  you  \  all  the 
world  seems  circumscribed  to  scrip  and  the  budget. 
In  fine,  whatever  the  calling,  let  men  only  cultivate 
that  calling,  and  they  are  as  narrow-minded  as  the 
Chinese,  when  they  place  on  the  map  of  the  world  the 
Celestial  Empire  with  all  its  Tartaric  villages  in  full 
detail,  and  out  of  that  limit  make  dots  and  lines  with 
the  superscription,  "  Deserts  unknown,  inhabited  by 
barbarians  !  " 


THE    APPLE-DUMPLINGS    AND    GEORGE 
THE  THIRD. 

By  John  Wolcott  ("  Peter  Pindar  "),  Poet,  Satirist.  B. 
1738,  England  ;  d.  18 19. 

George  the  Third,  b.  1738,  became  king  of  England  in  1760, 
and  died  in  1820.  His  mind  was  not  very  strong,  but  he  was  con- 
scientious and  firm  of  purpose. 

Once  in  the  chase,  this  monarch  drooping. 
From  his  high  consequence  and  wisdom  stooping, 
Entered,  through  curiosity,  a  cot. 
Where  an  old  crone  was  hanging  on  the  pot ; 
The  wrinkled,  blear-eyed,  good  old  granny, 
In  this  same  cot,  illumed  by  many  a  cranny, 
Had  apple-dumplings  ready  for  the  pot ; 


ALFRED    THE   GREAT    TO  HIS  MEN.         115 

In  tempting  row  the  naked  dumplings  lay, 

When,  lo  !  the  monarch,  in  his  usual  way, 

Li-ke  lightning  asked,  "  What's  here  ?  what's  here? 

What  ?  what  ?  what  ?  what  ? " 

Then  taking  up  a  dumpling  in  his  hand, 

His  eyes  with  admiration  did  expand — 

And  oft  did  majesty  the  dumpling  grapple  ; 

"  'Tis  monstrous,   monstrous,   monstrous     hard,"    he 

cried  ; 
"What  makes  the  thing  so  hard  ?"    The  dame  replied, 
Low  courtesying,  "Please  your  majesty,  the  apple." 
"  Very  astonishing,  indeed  !  strange  thing  !  " 
(Turning  the  dumpling  round,)  rejoined  the  king, 
"  'Tis  most  extraordinary  now,  all  this  is — 
It  beats  the  conjurer's  capers  all  to  pieces — 
Strange  I  should  never  of  a  dumpling  dream  ; 
But,  Goody,  tell  me,  where,  where,  where's  the  seam  ? " 
"  Sire,  there's  no  seam,"  quoth  she  ; "  I  never  knew 
That  folks  did  apple-dumplings  sew  !  " 
"  No  !  "  cried  the  staring  monarch,  with  a  grin, 
"  Then,  where,  where,  where,  pray,  got  the  apple  in  ?  " 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT  TO  HIS  MEN. 

By  James  Sheridan   Knowles,  Dramatist,  Actor.     B.  1784, 
Ireland  ;  d.  1862,  England. 

My  friends,  this  country  must  be  free  !     That  land 
Is  never  lost  that  has  a  son  to  right  her, — 
And  here  are  troops  of  sons,  and  loyal  ones! 
Strong  in  her  children  should  a  mother  be  ; 
Shall  ours  be  helpless,  that  has  sons  like  these? 


Il6        ALFRED    THE    GREAT   TO  HIS  MEN. 

God  save  our  native  land,  whoever  pays 

The  ransom  that  redeems  her  !    Now,  what  wait  we  ?— 

For  Alfred's  word  to  move  upon  the  foe  ? 

Upon  him,  then  !     Now  think  ye  on  the  things 

You  most  do  love  !     Husbands  and  fathers,  on 

Your  wives  and  children  ;  lovers,  on  your  beloved  ; 

And  all,  upon  your  country  !     When  you  use 

Your  weapons,  think  on  the  beseeching  eyes, 

To  whet  them,  could  have  lent  you  tears  for  water  ! 

O,  now  be  men,  or  never !     From  your  hearths 

Thrust  the  unbidden  feet,  that  from  their  nooks 

Drove  forth  your  aged  sires — your  wives  and  babes  ! 

The  couches,  your  fair-handed  daughters  used 

To  spread,  let  not  the  vaunting  stranger  press, 

Weary  from  spoiling  you  !     Your  roofs,  that  hear 

The  wanton  riot  of  the  intruding  guest. 

That  mocks  their  masters, — clear  them  for  the  sake 

Of  the  manhood  to  which  all  that's  precious  clings 

Else  perishes.     The  land  that  bore  you — O  ! 

Do  honor  to  her  !     Let  her  glory  in 

Your  breeding  !     Rescue  her  !     Revenge  her, — or 

Ne'er  call  her  mother  more  !     Come  on,  my  friends  ! 

And,  where  you  take  your  stand  upon  the  field, 

However  you  advance,  resolve  on  this, — 

That  a  foot  you'll  ne'er  recede,  while  from  the  tongues 

Of  age,  and  womanhood,  and  infancy,  the  helplessness 

whose  safety  in  you  lies 
Invokes  you  to  be  strong  !     Come  on  !     Come  on  ! 
I'll  bring  you  to  the  foe  !     And  when  you  meet  him. 
Strike  hard  !  Strike  home  !  Strike  while  a  dying  blow 
Is  in  an  arm  !     Strike  till  you're  free,  or  fall  ! 


THE   CONTEST  IN   THE   ARENA.  117 


THE  CONTEST  IN  THE  ARENA. 

By  Henryk  Sienkiewicz,  Novelist.  B.  1846,  Lithuania.  An 
extract  from  his  novel,  "  Quo  Vadis." 

Evening  exhibitions,  rare  up  to  that  period  and 
given  only  exceptionally,  became  common  in  Nero's 
time,  both  in  the  circus  and  amphitheatre. 

Though  the  people  were  sated  already  with  blood- 
spilling,  still,  when  the  news  went  forth  that  the  end  of 
the  games  was  approaching,  and  that  the  last  of  the 
Christians  were  to  die  at  an  evening  spectacle,  a  count- 
less audience  assembled  in  the  amphitheatre. 

Uncertainty,  waiting,  and  curiosity  had  mastered 
all  spectators.  Cassar  arrived  earlier  than  usual ; 
and  at  that  very  instant  almost,  the  prefect  of  the  city 
waved  a  red  handkerchief,  the  hinges  opposite  Caesar's 
podium  creaked,  and  out  of  the  dark  gully  came  Ursus 
into  the  brightly-lighted  arena.  The  giant  blinked, 
dazed  evidently  by  the  glitter  of  the  arena;  then  he 
pushed  into  the  center,  gazing  around  as  if  to  see  what 
he  had  to  meet. 

In  Rome  there  was  no  lack  of  gladiators  larger  by 
far  than  the  common  measure  of  man,  but  Roman  eyes 
had  never  seen  the  like  of  Ursus.  Cassius,  standing 
in  Caesar's  podium,  seemed  puny  compared  with  the 
Lygian.  Senators,  vestals,  Caesar,  the  Augustinians 
and  the  people  gazed  with  the  delight  of  experts  at  his 
mighty  limbs  as  large  as  tree-trunks;  at  his  breast  as 
large  as  two  shields  joined  together;  and  liis  arms  of 
a  Hercules.  The  murmur  rose  every  instant.  For 
those  multitudes  there  could  be  no  higher  pleasure 
than  to  look  at  those  muscles  in  play  in  the  exertion  of 


Ii8  THE    CONTEST  IN   THE   ARENA. 

a  struggle.  The  murmur  rose  to  shouts,  and  eager 
questions  were  put :  "  Where  do  the  people  live  who 
can  produce  such  a  giant  ?  "  He  stood  there,  in  the 
middle  of  the  amphitheatre,  naked,  more  like  a  stone 
Colossus  than  a  man,  with  a  collected  expression,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  sad  look  of  a  barbarian  ;  and 
while  surveying  the  empty  arena,  he  gazed  wonder- 
ingly,  with  his  blue,  childlike  eyes,  now  at  the  specta- 
tors, now  at  Caesar,  now  at  the  grating  of  the  cunicula, 
whence,  as  he  thought,  his  executioners  would  come. 

At  the  moment  when  he  stepped  into  the  arena  his 
simple  heart  was  beating  for  the  last  time  with  the 
hope  that  perhaps  a  cross  was  waiting  for  him  ;  but 
when  he  saw  neither  the  cross  nor  the  hole  in  which  it 
might  be  put,  he  thought  that  he  was  unworthy  of  such 
favor,  —  that  he  would  find  death  in  another  way,  and 
surely  from  wild  beasts.  He  was  unarmed,  and  had 
determined  to  die  as  became  a  confessor  of  the 
"  Lamb,"  peacefully  and  patiently.  Meanwhile  he 
wished  to  pray  once  more  to  the  Saviour ;  so  he  knelt 
on  the  arena,  joined  his  hands,  and  raised  his  eyes 
toward  the  stars  which  were  glittering  in  the  lofty 
opening  of  the  amphitheatre. 

That  act  displeased  the  crowds.  They  had  had 
enough  of  those  Christians  who  died  like  sheep.  They 
understood  that  if  the  giant  would  not  defend  himself 
the  spectacle  would  be  a  failure.  Here  and  there 
hisses  were  heard.  Some  began  to  cry  for  scourgers, 
whose  office  it  was  to  lash  combatants  unwilling  to 
fight.  But  soon  all  had  grown  silent;  for  no  one  knew 
what  was  waiting  for  the  giant,  nor  whether  he  would 
not  be  ready  to  struggle  when  he  met  death  eye  to  eye. 


THE    CONTEST  IN   THE   ARENA.  1 19 

In  fact,  they  had  not  long  to  wait.  Suddenly  the 
shrill  sound  of  brazen  trumpets  was  heard,  and  at 
that  signal  a  grating  opposite  Caesar's  podium  was 
opened,  and  into  the  arena  rushed,  amid  shouts  of 
beast-keepers,  an  enormous  German  aurochs,  bearing 
on  his  head  the  body  of  a  woman. 

This  time  the  amphitheatre  was  silent.  The  Lygian, 
obedient  and  ready  to  die,  when  he  saw  his  queen  on 
the  horns  of  the  wild  beast,  sprang  up,  as  if  touched 
by  living  fire,  and  bending  forward  he  ran  at  the 
raging  animal. 

From  all  breasts  a  sudden  cry  of  amazement  was 
heard,  after  which  came  deep  silence. 

The  Lygian  fell  on  the  raging  bull  in  a  twinkle,  and 
seized  him  by  the  horns.  All  breasts  ceased  to 
breathe.  In  the  amphitheatre  a  fly  might  be  heard  on 
the  wing.  People  could  not  believe  their  own  eyes. 
Since  Rome  was  Rome,  no  one  had  seen  such  a 
spectacle. 

The  Lygian  held  the  wild  beast  by  the  horns.  The 
man's  feet  sank  in  the  sand  to  his  ankles,  his  back  was 
bent  like  a  drawn  bow,  his  head  was  Iiidden  between 
his  shoulders;  on  his  arms  the  muscles  came  out  so 
that  the  skin  almost  burst  from  their  pressure ;  but  he 
had  stopped  the  bull  in  his  tracks.  And  the  man  and 
the  beast  remained  so  still  that  the  spectators  thought 
themselves  looking  at  a  picture  showing  a  deed  of 
Hercules  or  Theseus,  or  a  group  hewned  from  stone, 
liut  in  that  apparent  repose  there  was  a  tremendous 
exertion  of  two  struggling  forces.  The  bull  sank  his 
feet  as  well  as  did  the  man  in  the  sand,  and  his  dark, 
shaggy  body  was  curved  so  that  it  seemed  a  gigantic 


I20  THE    CONTEST  IN   THE   ARENA. 

ball.  Which  of  the  two  would  fail  first?  which  would 
fall  first  ?  —  that  was  the  question  for  those  spectators 
enamored  of  such  struggles ;  a  question  which  at  that 
moment  meant  more  for  them  than  their  own  fate,  than 
all  Rome  and  its  lordship  over  the  world. 

The  Lygian  was  in  their  eyes  then  a  demigod  worthy 
of  honor  and  statues.  Caesar  himself  stood  up  as  well 
as  others.  He  and  Tigellinus,  hearing  of  the  man's 
strength,  had  arranged  this  spectacle  purposely,  and 
said  to  each  other  with  a  jeer,  "Let  that  slayer  of  Cro- 
ton  kill  the  bull  which  we  choose  for  him ;  "  so  they 
looked  now  with  amazement  at  that  picture,  as  if  not 
believing  that  it  could  be  real. 

In  the  amphitheatre  were  men  who  had  raised  their 
arms  and  remained  in  that  posture.  Sweat  covered 
the  faces  of  others,  as  if  they  themselves  were  strug- 
gling with  the  beast.  In  the  circus  nothing  was  heard 
save  the  sound  of  flame  in  the  lamps,  and  the  crackle 
of  bits  of  coal  as  they  dropped  from  the  torches. 
Their  voices  died  on  the  lips  of  the  spectators,  but 
their  hearts  were  beating  in  their  breasts  as  if  to  split 
them.  It  seemed  to  all  that  the  struggle  was  lasting 
for  ages.  But  the  man  and  the  beast  continued  on  in 
their  monstrous  exertion ;  one  might  haye  said  that 
they  were  planted  in  the  earth. 

Meanwhile  a  dull  roar  resembling  a  groan  was  heard 
from  the  arena,  after  which  a  brief  shout  was  wrested 
from  every  breast,  and  again  there  was  silence. 
People  thought  themselves  dreaming  till  the  enormous 
head  of  the  bull  began  to  turn  in  the  iron  hands  of  the 
barbarian.  The  face,  neck,  and  arms  of  the  Lygian 
grew  purple,  his  back  bent  still   more.     It  was  clear 


THE    CONTEST  IN   THE   ARENA.  12 1 

that  he  was  rallying  the  remnant  of  his  superhuman 
strength,  but  that  he  could  not  last  long. 

Duller  and  duller,  hoarser  and  hoarser,  more  and 
more  painful  grew  the  groan  of  the  bull  as  it  mingled 
with  the  whistling  breath  from  the  breast  of  the  giant. 
The  head  of  the  beast  turned  more  and  more,  and 
from  his  jaws  crept  forth  a  long,  foaming  tongue. 

A  moment  more  and  to  the  ears  of  spectators  sitting 
nearer  came  as  it  were  the  crack  of  breaking  bones  ; 
then  the  beast  rolled  on  the  earth  with  his  neck  twisted 
in  death. 

The  giant  removed  in  a  twinkle  the  ropes  from  the 
horns  of  the  bull  and,  raising  the  maiden,  began  to 
breathe  hurriedly.  His  face  became  pale,  his  hair 
stuck  together  from  sweat,  his  shoulders  and  arms 
seemed  flooded  with  water.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
as  if  only  half  conscious ;  then  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  spectators.  The  amphitheatre  had  gone 
wild. 

The  walls  of  the  building  were  trembling  from  the 
roar  of  tens  of  thousands  of  people.  Since  the  begin- 
ning of  spectacles  there  was  no  memory  of  such  excite- 
ment. Those  who  were  sitting  on  the  highest  rows 
came  down,  crowding  in  the  passages  between  benches 
to  look  more  nearly  at  the  strong  man.  Everywhere 
were  heard  cries  for  mercy,  passionate  and  persistent, 
which  soon  turned  into  one  unbroken  thunder.  That 
giant  had  become  dear  to  those  people  enamored  of 
physical  strength  ;  he  was  the  first  personage  in  Rome. 

He  understood  that  the  multitude  were  striving  to 
grant  him  his  life,  and  restore  him  his  freedom,  but 
clearly   his  thought   was   not    on   himself    alone.     He 


122  THE   CONTEST  IN    THE   ARENA. 

looked  around  a  while  ;  then  approached  Caesar's  podi- 
um, and,  holding  the  body  of  the  maiden  on  his  out- 
stretched arms,  raised  his  eyes  with  entreaty,  as  if  to 
say,— 

"  Have  mercy  on  her !  Save  the  maiden.  I  did 
that  for  her  sake  !  " 

The  spectators  understood  perfectly  what  he  wanted. 
At  sight  of  the  unconscious  maiden,  who  near  the 
enormous  Lygian  seemed  a  child,  emotion  seized  the 
multitude  of  knights  and  senators.  Her  slender  form, 
her  fainting,  the  dreadful  danger  from  which  the  giant 
had  freed  her,  and,  finally,  her  beauty  and  attachment, 
had  moved  every  heart.  Some  thought  the  man  a 
father  begging  mercy  for  his  child.  Pity  burst  forth 
suddenly,  like  a  flame.  They  had  had  blood,  death, 
and  torture  in  sufficiency.  Voices  choked  with  tears 
began  to  entreat  mercy  for  both. 

Meanwhile  Ursus,  holding  the  girl  in  his  arms, 
moved  around  the  arena,  and  with  his  eyes  and  with 
motions  begged  her  life  for  her. 

At  this  the  enthusiasm  of  the  multitude  passed 
everything  seen  in  a  circus  before.  The  crowd 
stamped  and  howled.  Voices  calling  for  mercy  grew 
simply  terrible.  People  not  only  took  the  part  of  the 
athlete,  but  rose  in  defense  of  the  soldier,  the  maiden, 
their  love.  Thousands  of  spectators  turned  to  Caesar 
with  flashes  of  anger  in  their  eyes,  and  with  clinched  fists. 

But  Ceesar  halted  and  hesitated.  His  cruelty,  his 
deformed  imagination,  and  deformed  desires  found  a 
kind  of  delight  in  such  spectacles.  And  now  the 
people  wanted  to  rob  him.  Hence  anger  appeared  on 
his  bloated  face.     Self-love  also  would   not   let   him 


THE   CONTEST  IN   THE   ARENA.  123 

yield  to  the  wish  of  the  multitudes,  and  still  he  did  not 
dare  to  oppose  it,  through  his  inborn  cowardice. 

So  he  gazed  around  to  see  if  he  could  not  find 
fingers  turned  down  in  sign  of  death.  But  Petronius 
held  up  his  hand,  and  looked  into  Nero's  face  almost 
challengingly.  Vestinius,  superstitious  but  inclined  to 
enthusiasm,  a  man  who  feared  ghosts  but  not  the 
living,  gave  a  sign  for  mercy  also.  So  did  Scevinus, 
the  senator;  so  did  Nerva. 

Then  Nero  turned  to  the  place  where  command  over 
the  pretorians  was  held  by  the  stern  Subrius  Flavins, 
hitherto  devoted  with  whole  soul  to  him,  and  saw 
something  unusual.  The  face  of  the  old  tribune  was 
stern,  but  covered  with  tears,  and  he  was  holding  his 
hand  up  in  sign  of  mercy. 

Nero  was  alarmed.  He  looked  once  more  at  Sub- 
rius Flavius,  at  the  soldiers  ;  and  seeing  everywhere 
frowning  brows,  excited  faces,  and  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
he  gave  the  sign  for  mercy. 

Then  a  thunder  of  applause  was  heard  from  the 
highest  seats  to  the  lowest.  The  people  were  sure  of 
the  lives  of  the  condemned,  for  from  that  moment  they 
went  under  their  protection,  and  even  Caesar  would 
not  have  dared  to  pursue  them  any  longer  with  his 
vengeance. 


124  THE   MONARCHY   OF   C^SAR. 


THE  MONARCHY  OF  C^SAR. 

By  Theodor  Mommsen,  Jurist,  Historian,  Antiquary.  B. 
1817,  Germany. 

Extract  from  the  "  History  of  Rome,"  published  between  1858 
and  1862,  and  translated  by  William  P.  Dickson. 

We  have  reached  the  end  of  the   Roman  republic. 

We  have  seen  it  rule  for  five  hundred  years  in  Italy 

and  in  the  countries  of  the  Mediterranean ;  we  have 

seen  it  brought  to  ruin  in  politics  and  morals,  religion 

and    literature,    not   through   outward    violence    but 

through  inward  decay,  and  thereby  making  room  for 

the  new  monarchy  of  Csesar.     There  was  in  the  world, 

as  Csesar  found  it,  much  of  the  noble  heritage  of  past 

centuries  and  an    infinite  abundance  of    pomp   and 

glory,  but  little  spirit,  still  less  taste,  and  least  of  all 

true  delight  in  life.     It  was  indeed  an  old  world  ;  and 

even  the  richly  gifted  patriotism  of  Csesar  could  not 

make  it  young  again.     The  dawn  does  not  return  till 

after  the  night  has  fully  set  in  and   run  its  course. 

But  yet  with  him  there  came  to  the  sorely  harassed 

peoples   on  the   Mediterranean  a    tolerable    evening 

after  the  sultry  noon. 

****** 

Ceesar  ruled  as  King  of  Rome  for  five  years  and  a 
half,  not  half  as  long  as  Alexander  ;  in  the  intervals 
of  seven  great  campaigns,  which  allowed  him  to  stay 
not  more  than  fifteen  months  altogether  in  the  capi- 
tal of  his  empire,  he  regulated  the  destinies  of  the 
world  for  the  present  and  the  future,  from  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  boundary-line  between  civilization  and 


WHAT'S  HALLOWED   GROUND?  125 

barbarism  down  to  the  removal  of  the  rain-pools  in 
the  streets  of  the  capital,  and  yet  retained  time  and 
composure  enough  attentively  to  follow  the  prize- 
pieces  in  the  theater  and  to  confer  the  chaplet  on  the 
victor  with  improvised  verses.  The  outlines  were 
laid  down  and  thereby  the  new  state  was  defined  for 
all  coming  time  ;  the  boundless  future  alone  could 
complete  the  structure.  So  far  Csesar  might  say  that 
his  object  was  attained  ;  and  this  was  probably  the 
meaning  of  the  words  which  were  sometimes  heard  to 
fall  from  him — that  he  had  lived  long  enough.  But 
precisely  because  the  building  was  an  endless  one,  the 
master  as  long  as  he  lived  restlessly  added  stone  to 
stone,  with  always  the  same  dexterity  and  always  the 
same  elasticity  busy  at  his  work,  without  ever  over- 
turning or  altering,  just  as  if  there  were  for  him 
merely  a  to-day  and  no  to-morrow.  Thus  he  worked 
and  created  as  never  any  mortal  did  before  or  after 
him  ;  and  as  a  worker  and  creator  he  still,  after  well- 
nigh  two  thousand  years,  lives  in  the  memory  of  the 
nations — the  first,  and  the  unique,  Imperator  Csesar. 


WHAT'S  HALLOWED  GROUND? 

By  Tho.mas  Campbell,  Poet.     B,  1777,  England  ;  d.  1844. 

What's  hallowed  ground?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 


126  WHAT'S  HALLOWED   GROUND? 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  : 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep, 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind, 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  saved  mankind, — 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die  ! 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? — 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight, 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? — 

A  noble  cause  ! 
****** 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?     'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  -sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! 
Peace  !     Independence  !     Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round  ; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground  ! 


MR.  PITT  TO  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE.        127 

REPLY  OF    MR.  PITT   TO    SIR  ROBERT 
WALPOLE. 

By  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  Statesman,  Orator.  B. 
1708,  Eng-Iand  ;  d.  1778. 

The  struggle  between  Pitt  and  Walpole  was  remarkable  for  the 
youth  and  inexperience  of  the  one  and  the  age  and  long  parliamen- 
tary experience  of  the  other.  The  following  speech  was  delivered 
March  6,  1741. 

The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a  young  man,  which, 
with  such  spirit  and  decency,  the  honorable  gentleman 
has  charged  upon  me,  I  shall  neither  attempt  to  palli- 
ate nor  deny  ;  but  content  myself  with  hoping  that  I 
may  be  one  of  those  whose  follies  cease  with  their 
youth,  and  not  of  that  number  who  are  ignorant  in 
spite  of  experience. 

Whether  youth  can  be  imputed  to  a  man  asa  reproach, 
I  will  not  assume  the  province  of  determining  ;  but, 
surely,  age  may  become  justly  contemptible,  if  the 
opportunities  which  it  brings  have  passed  away  with- 
out improvement. 

The  wretch  who,  after  having  seen  the  consequences 
of  a  thousand  errors,  continues  still  to  blunder,  and 
whose  age  has  only  added  obstinacy  to  stupidity,  is 
surely  the  object  either  of  abhorrence  or  contempt, 
and  deserves  not  that  his  gray  hairs  should  secure 
him  from  insult 

But  youth  is  not  my  only  crime.  I  am  accused  of 
acting  a  theatrical  part.  A  theatrical  part  may  either 
imply  some  peculiarity  of  gesture,  or  a  dissimulation 
of  my  real  sentiments,  and  an  adoption  of  the  opinions 
and  language  of  another  man. 


1 2 8  THE    ' '  GRA ND  ADVA NCE. " 

In  the  first  sense  the  charge  is  too  trifling  to  be 
confuted,  and  deserves  only  to  be  mentioned  that  it 
may  be  despised.  I  am  at  liberty — like  every  other 
man — to  use  my  own  language  :  and  though,  perhaps, 
I  may  have  some  ambition  to  please  this  gentleman,  I 
shall  not  lay  myself  under  any  restraint,  nor  very 
solicitously  copy  his  diction  or  his  mien,  however 
matured  by  age  or  modeled  by  experience. 

But  if  any  man  shall,  by  charging  me  with  theatrical 
behavior,  imply  that  I  utter  any  sentiments  but  my 
own,  I  shall  on  such  an  occasion,  without  scruple, 
trample  upon  all  those  forms  with  which  wealth  and 
dignity  intrench  themselves  ;  nor  shall  anything  but 
age  restrain  my  resentment  ; — age,  which  always 
brings  one  privilege — that  of  being  insolent  and  super- 
cilious without  punishment 

The  heat  that  offended  him  and  them  was  the  ardor 
of  conviction,  and  that  zeal  for  the  service  of  my 
country  which  neither  hope,  nor  fear,  shall  influence 
me  to  suppress. 


THE  ''GRAND  ADVANCE."* 

By  Frank    H.  Gassaway,    Poet.     Lives   in   San   Francisco, 
California. 

When  War's  wild  clamor  filled  the  land,  when  Porter 

swept  the  sea, 
When  Grant  held   Vicksburg  by  the  throat  and  Hal- 

leck  strove  with  Lee, 

*  From  "  Outing." 


THE    "GRAND  ADVANCE."  129 

It  chanced  that  Custer's  cavaliers — the  flower  of  all 

our  horse — 
Held  Hood's  brigade  at  Carroll's   Ford,  where  still  it 

strove  to  cross. 
Two  days  the  stubborn  skirmish  raged — the  lines  still 

closer  grew  ; 
And  now  the  rebels  gained  an  inch,  and  now  the  men 

in  blue, 
Until  at  length  the  Northern  swords  hemmed  in  the 

footmen  gray, 
And  both  sides  girded  for  the  shock  that  won  or  lost 

the  day. 
'Twas  scarce  a  lance's  length  between  the  torn  and 

slipp'ry  banks 
O'er  which  our  neighing  squadrons  faced  the    hard 

pressed  Southern  ranks. 
And  while  Hood's  sullen  ambush  crouched  along  the 

river's  marge. 
Their  pickets  brought  a  prisoner  in,  captured  in  some 

brief  charge. 
This  was  a  stripling  trumpeter,  a  mere  lad — fitter  far 
To  grace  some  loving  mother's  hearth  than  these  grim 

scenes  of  war. 
But  still,  with  proud,  defiant  mien,  he  bore  his  soldier's 

crest. 
And  smiled  above  the  shattered  arm  that  hung  upon 

his  breast. 
For  was  not  he  Staff  Trumpeter  of  Custer's  famed 

brigade  ? 
Did  not  through  him  the  General  speak,  in  camp,  or 

on  parade  ? 


130  THE   "GRAND  ADVANCE." 

'Twas  his  to  form  the  battle  line.     His  was  the  clarion 

peal 
That  launched  upon  the  frighted  foe  that  surging  sea 

of  steel  ! 
They  led  hini  to  the   outer  posts  within  the  tangled 

wood, 
Beyond  whose  shade,  on   chafing  steeds,  his  waiting 

comrades  stood. 
They  placed  his  bugle  in   his  hands  (a  musket  level 

nigh), 
"  Now,  Yankee,  sound  a  loud  '  Retreat,'  "  they  whis- 
pered.    "  Sound — or  die  !  " 
The  lad  looked  up  a  little  space — a  lark's  song  sounded 

near, 
As  though  to  ask  why  men  had  brought  their  deeds 

of  hatred  here. 
High  in  the  blue  the  South  wind  swept  a  single  cloud 

of  foam, 
A  messenger,  it  seemed  to  him,  to  bear  his  last  thought 

home  ; 
And  casting  t'ward  the  Northland   far  one  sad,  but 

steadfast,  glance. 
He  raised  the  bugle  to  his  lips  and  blew — the  "  Grand 

Advance  !  " 
A  bullet  cut  the  pean  short — but,  ere  his  senses  fled, 
He  heard  that  avalanche  of  hoofs  thunder  above  his 

head  ! 
He  saw  his  comrades'  sabres  sweep  resistless  o'er  the 

plain, 
And  knew  his  trumpet's  loyal  note  had  sounded  not 

in  vain. 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  131 

Por — when  they  laid  him  in  his  rest  (his  bugle  by  his 

side), 
His  lips  still  smiled — for  Victory  had  kissed  them  ere 

he  died  ! 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

By  Phillips  Brooks,  Clergyman.     B.  1835,  Massachusetts. 

From  an  address  delivered  before  the  students  of  Phillips  Exe- 
ter Academy.  Edward  Gibbon,  the  great  historian,  was  born  in 
England  in  1737  and  died  in  1794. 

English  literature  is  rich  in  autobiography.  It 
has,  indeed,  no  tale  so  deep  and  subtle  as  that  which 
is  told  in  the  Confessions  of  St.  Augustine.  It  has  no 
such  complete  and  unreserved  unbosoming  of  a  life  as 
is  given  by  the  strange  Italian,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  who 
is  the  very  prince  of  unconcealment.  But  there  is 
hardly  any  self-told  life  in  any  language  which  is  more 
attractive  than  the  autobiography  of  Edward  Gibbon, 
in  which  he  recounts  the  story  of  his  own  career  in 
the  same  stately,  pure  prose  in  which  he  narrates  the 
Decline  and  Fall  of  Rome. 

It  must  have  needed  a  great  faith  in  a  man's  self  to 
write  those  sonorous  pages.  Two  passages  in  them 
have  passed  into  the  history  of  man.  One  is  that  in 
which  he  described  how,  in  Rome,  on  the  15th  of  Octo- 
ber, 1764,  as  he  sat  musing  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Cap- 
itol, while  the  barefooted  friars  were  singing  vespers 
in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  the  idea  of  writing  the 
decline  and  fall  of  the  city  first  started  in  his  mind. 
The  other  is  the  passage  in  which  the  great  historian 
records  how,  on   the  night  of  the  27th  of  June,  1787, 


132  ODE    TO    THE  PASSIONS. 

between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  he  wrote  the 
last  lines  of  the  last  page  in  a  summer-house  at  Lau- 
sanne, and  how  then,  laying  down  his  pen,  he  "took 
several  turns  in  a  berceau,  or  covered  walk  of  acacias, 
which  commanded  a  prospect  of  the  country,  the  lake, 
and  the  mountain."  The  story  is  all  very  solemn  and 
exalted.  It  is  full  of  the  feeling  that  the  beginning 
and  ending  of  a  great  literary  work  is  as  great  an 
achievement  as  the  foundation  and  completion  of  an 
empire, — as  worthy  of  record  and  of  honor. 


ODE  TO  THE  PASSIONS. 

By  William  Collins,  Poet.     B.  1720,  England  ;  d.  1756. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell. 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting,— 
Possessed  be3'ond  the  muse's  painting  ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 
Till  once  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound  • 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 


ODE    TO    THE  PASSIONS.  133 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed  ;  his  eyes,  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  ; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 

Low,  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled, — 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air  ; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  0  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, — 
What  was  thy  delightful  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song ; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden 
hair. 


134  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

By  Washington  Irving,  Author.  B.  1783,  New  York  ;  d. 
1859. 

The  principal  parts  of  the  existing  Westminster  Abbey  were 
built  by  Henry  III.,  1220-1245  ;  Richard  HI.  and  Henry  VII. 
also  built  portions  of  it.  "  It  is  crowded  with  tombs  and  monu- 
ments of  kings  and  great  men,  and  it  has  become  a  national  honor 
to  be  interred  within  its  walls." 

The  approach  to  the  Abbey  through  gloomy 
monastic  remains,  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn 
contemplation.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored  by 
damp,  and  crumbling  with  age  :  a  coat  of  hoary  moss 
has  gathered  over  the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monu- 
ments, and  obscured  the  death's  heads,  and  other 
funeral  emblems.  The  sharp  touches  of  the  chisel 
are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the  arches :  the 
roses  which  adorned  the  key-stones  have  lost  their 
leafy  beauty  :  everything  bears  marks  of  the  gradual 
dilapidations  of  time,  which  yet  has  something  touch- 
ing and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray 
into  the  square  of  the  cloisters  ;  beaming  upon  a 
scanty  plot  of  grass  in  the  center,  and  lighting  up  an 
angle  of  the  vaulted  passage  with  a  kind  of  dusty 
splendor. 

From  between  the  arcades,  the  eye  glanced  up  to  a 
bit  of  blue  sky,  or  a  passing  cloud  ;  and  beheld  the 
sun-gilt  pinnacle  of  the  Abbey  towering  into  the  azure 
heaven.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing  away.  The 
distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  Abbey  grew  less 
and  less  frequent ;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was  sum- 


LAUGH.  135 

moning  to  evening  prayers.  A  flight  of  stairs  led  up 
to  the  entrance  of  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel, 
through  a  deep  and  gloomy  but  magnificent  arch. 
Great  gates  of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought, 
turn  heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant 
to  admit  the  feet  of  common  mortals  into  its  most 
gorgeous  of  sepulchres.  On  entering,  the  eye  is 
astonished  by  the  pomp  of  architecture  and  the  elabo- 
rate beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The  very  walls  are 
wrought  into  universal  ornament,  encrusted  with 
tracery  and  crowded  with  the  statues  of  saints  and 
martyrs.  Stone  seems, — by  the  cunning  labor  of  the 
chisel, — to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and  density, 
suspended  aloft,  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof 
achieved    with   the   wonderful   minuteness    and    airy 

security  of  a  cobweb. 

******* 

What,  however,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepul- 
chres but  a  treasury  of  humiliation  !  It  is  indeed  the 
empire  of  Death  ;  his  great  shadowy  palace  ;  where 
he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory, 
and  spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monu- 
ments of  princes. 


LAUGH,    AND    THE     WORLD     LAUGHS 
WITH  YOU. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you  ; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone  ; 
For  this  brave  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth, 


136  LAUGH. 

It  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own. 
Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer ; 

Sigh  !  it  is  lost  on  the  air  ; 
The  echoes  bound  to  a  joyful  sound, 

But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you  ; 

Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go : 
They  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure, 

But  they  do  not  want  your  woe. 
Be  glad  and  your  friends  are  many ; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all  ; 
There  are  none  to  decline  your  nectar'd  wine, 

But  alone  you  must  drink  life's  gall. 

Feast  and  your  halls  are  crowded  ; 

Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by  ; 
Succeed  and  give,  and  it  helps  you  live. 

But  no  man  can  help  you  die. 
There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 

For  a  long  and  lordly  train  : 
But  one  by  one  we  must  all  file  on 

Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 


ALP'S  DECISION.  137 


ALP'S  DECISION. 

By  George   Gordon    Noel,    Lord   Byron,    Poet.     B.    1788 
England  ;  d.  1824,  Greece. 

Corinth,  a  Greek  city,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Venetians  in 
1699.  Alp  was  a  renegade  Venetian  who  guided  the  Turkish 
army  to  the  city  in  1715. 

The  following  from  "  The  Siege  of  Corinth,"  describes  the  in- 
terview between  Alp  and  the  ghost  of  Francesca.  Francesca,  the 
daughter  of  Signior  Minotti,  the  governor  of  the  city  and  the 
promised  bride  of  Alp,  had  died  on  the  night  of  this  interview. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long-forgotten  hands  ; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown. 

Out  upon  Time  I  it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before  ! 

Out  upon  Time  !  who  forever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must 

be. 
What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 
Remnants  of  things  that  have  passed  away, 
Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clay, 
****** 

Alp  sat  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base, 
And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face  ; 
Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 
Declining  was  his  attitude. 

♦  *•♦•• 

There  he  sat  all  heavily^ 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 


138  ALP'S  DECISION. 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone, 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ? 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  o'er  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be  ; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass — it  waved  not  a  blade 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd  ? 

%  if  *  ^  ■^  ^ 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek  ; 
What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  ? 
He  turn'd  to  the  left — is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 
There  sat  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 

He  started  up  with  more  of  fear 
Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 
"  God  of  my  fathers  !  what  is  here  ? 
Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 
So  near  a  hostile  armament  ? " 

****** 

He  gazed,  he  saw ;  he  knew  the  face 

Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace  ; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride ! 

"  If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 

Thus  much,  then  for  the  love  of  Heaven, — 

Again  I  say — that  turban  tear 

From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 

Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 

Or  thou  art  lost ;  and  never  siaalt  see — 

Not  earth — that's  past — but  heaven  or  me. 


ALP'S  DECISION.  139 

If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 
A  heavy  doom  'tis  thine  to  meet, 
That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 
And  mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within. 
But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake ; 
And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  forever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — 
'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon — 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapory  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged  ; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 
But  his  heart  was  swoU'n,  and  turn'd  aside. 
By  deep  interminable  pride. 

****** 

He  sue  for  mercy  !     He  dismay'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid  ! 

He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave  ! 

No — though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst. 

And  charged  to  crush  him — let  it  burst! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly. 
Without  an  accent  of  reply  ; 


14°  A   RIGHTEOUS    WAR. 

He  watch'd  it  passing  ;  it  is  flown  : 
Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 
And  thus  he  spake  :  "  Whate'er  my  fate, 
I  am  no  changeling  —  'tis  too  late  : 

****** 
What  Venice  made  me  I  must  be, 
Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee  : 
But  thou  art  safe  :  oh,  fly  with  me  !  " 
He  turn'd,  but  she  is  gone  ! 
Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 
Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  ? 
He  saw  not  —  he  knew  not  —  but  nothing  is  there. 


A   RIGHTEOUS  WAR. 

By  W.  S.  WiTHAM  of  Atlanta,  Georgia. 

An  extract  from  an  address  before  the  Bankers'  Convention  at 
Denver,  Colorado,  October,  1898. 

"This  is  an  educational  war.  It  is  also  a  right- 
eous war  in  that  it  obliterates  the  difference  between 
brother  and  brother  arising  out  of  our  Civil  War.  I 
come  to  you  from  a  land  marked  by  many  tombs, 
and  whose  long-saddened  memories  are  once  more 
broken  by  the  triumphs  of  her  chivalrous  sons,  in 
proof  of  our  oft-expressed  loyalty  to  the  stars  and 
stripes." 

"  It  is  a  war  of  reconciliation.  Shall  the  poor  man 
sneer  at  the  rich,  since  he  has  seen  the  charge  at  El 
Caney,  led  by  Roosevelt  ?  Shall  class  hate  class 
after  seeing  Hamilton  Fish,  the  son  of  a  millionaire, 
fall  at  the  battle  of  Seville,  caught  in  the  arms  of  a 


DECISIVE  INTEGRITY.  141 

penniless  cowboy  from  Texas?  Shall  the  white  man 
feel  contempt  for  the  black  man,  since  he  saw  that 
hero  of  the  colored  troops  rush  ahead  of  our  faltering 
lines,  mount  the  fort  of  San  Juan,  seize  and  break 
down  the  Spanish  flag,  then  fall  lifeless,  pierced  by 
no  less  than  thirty-two  Mauser  bullets?  Shall  the 
Spaniard  hate  his  American  conqueror,  who,  after 
taking  25,000  of  them  prisoners,  filled  their  empty 
stomachs  with  American  food,  gave  them  free  pas- 
sage home  on  safe,  clean  boats,  singing,  as  they 
sailed,  'God  be  with  you  till  we  meet  again?" 

"This,  too,  is  a  uniting  war.  Did  you  ever  see  such 
a  Fourth  of  July  as  the  last  one?  The  blowing  up  of 
the  Maine  made  a  grave  for  many  brave  soldiers, 
but  at  the  same  time,  it  created  the  cemetery  of 
sectionalism.  The  burning  of  Cervera's  fleet  by  our 
own  revealed  more  than  one  conquered  foe  of  Amer- 
ica—  for  it  left  in  full  view  of  the  world  the  ashes  of 
sectional  hate.  There  is  no  Mason  and  Dixon's  line 
to-day.  Yes,  it  is  a  divine  war,  for  we  find  ourselves 
doubly  freed  in  our  endeavor  to  secure  freedom  to 
our  neighbor." 


DECISIVE   INTEGRITY. 

By  William  Wirt,  Lawyer,  Author.  B.  1772,  Maryland;  d. 
1834,  Washington,  D.  C. 

The  man  who  is  so  conscious  of  the  rectitude  of  his 
intentions  as  to  be  willing  to  open  his  bosom  to  the 
inspection  of  the  world,  is  in  possession  of  one  of  the 
strongest  pillars  of  a  decided  character.     The  course 


142  DECISIVE  INTEGRITY. 

of  such  a  man  will  be  firm  and  steady,  because  he  has 
nothing  to  fear  from  the  world,  and  is  sure  of  the 
approbation  and  support  of  heaven.  The  clear, 
unclouded  brow,  the  open  countenance,  the  brilliant 
eye  which  can  look  an  honest  man  steadfastly,  yet 
courteously,  in  the  face,  the  healthfully  beating  heart, 
and  the  firm,  elastic  step,  belong  to  him  whose  bosom 
is  free  from  guile  and  who  knows  that  all  his  motives 
and  purposes  are  pure  and  right. 

Let  your  first  step  in  that  discipline  which  is  to 
give  you  decision  of  character,  be  the  heroic  deter- 
mination to  be  honest  men,  and  to  preserve  this 
character  through  every  vicissitude  of  fortune,  and 
in  every  relation  which  connects  you  with  society. 
I  do  not  use  this  phrase,  "  honest  men,"  in  the  nar- 
row sense,  merely,  of  meeting  your  pecuniary  engage- 
ments, and  paying  your  debts  ;  for  this  the  common 
pride  of  gentlemen  will  constrain  you  to  do.  I  use  it 
in  its  larger  sense  of  discharging  all  your  duties,  both 
public  and  private,  both  open  and  secret,  with  the 
most  scrupulous  heaven-attesting  integrity. 

There  is  a  morality  on  a  larger  scale,  perfectly  con- 
sistent with  a  just  attention  to  your  own  affairs,  which 
it  would  be  the  heihgt  of  folly  to  neglect  ;  a  generous 
expansion,  a  proud  elevation,  and  conscious  greatness 
of  character,  which  is  the  best  preparation  for  a  de- 
cided course,  in  every  situation  into  which  you  can 
be  thrown  ;  and  it  is  to  this  high  and  noble  tone  of 
character  that  I  would  have  you  to  aspire.  I  would 
not  have  you  to  resemble  those  weak  and  meagei 
streamlets,  which   lose  their  direction  at  every  petty 


MA  J? A  THON.  143 

impediment  that  presents  itself,  and  stop,  and  turn 
back,  and  creep  around,  and  search  out  every  little 
channel  through  which  they  may  wind  their  feeble 
and  sickly  course.  Nor  yet  would  I  have  you  to 
resemble  the  headlong  torrent  that  carries  havoc  in 
its  mad  career.  But  I  would  have  you  like  the  ocean, 
that  noblest  emblem  of  majestic  decision,  which,  in 
the  calmest  hour,  still  heaves  its  resistless  might  of 
waters  to  the  shore,  filling  the  heavens,  day  and  night, 
with  the  echoes  of  its  sublime  declaration  of  indepen- 
dence, and  tossing  and  sporting  on  its  bed,  with  an 
imperial  consciousness  of  strength  that  laughs  at 
opposition.  It  is  this  depth,  and  weight,  and  power, 
and  purity  of  character  that  I  would  have  you  to 
resemble,  and  I  would  have  you  like  the  waves  of  the 
ocean,  to  become  the  purer  by  your  own  action. 


MARATHON. 

By  Sir.  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Novelist,  Statesman.  B. 
1803,  England  ;  d.  1873. 

Marathon  is  a  plain  (twenty-two  miles  from  Athens)  six  miles 
long,  and  from  two  to  three  miles  broad.  Here  a  great  victory 
was  gained  by  the  Greeks  under  Miltiades  over  the  Persian  army, 
September  12,  490  B.C. 

Extract  from  "Athens  ;  its  Rise  and  Fall,"  written  in  1837. 

Aided  by  a  thousand  men  from  Plataea,  then  on 
terms  of  intimate  friendship  with  the  Athenians,  the 
little  army  marched  from  the  city  and  advanced  to 
the  entrance  of  the  plain  of  Marathon.  Here  they 
arrayed  themselves  in  martial  order  near  the  temple 
of  Hercules,  to  the  east  of  the  hills  that  guard  the 
upper  part  of  the  valley. 


144  MARATHON. 

We  may  behold  them  clad  in  bright  armor,  well 
proof  and  tempered,  which  covered  breast  and  back — 
their  helmets  were  wrought  and  crested,  the  cones 
mostly  painted  in  glowing  colors,  and  the  plumage  of 
feathers  or  horse-hair,  rich  and  waving.  Broad, 
sturdy,  and  richly  ornamented  were  their  bucklers — 
the  pride  and  darling  of  their  arms,  the  loss  of  which 
was  the  loss  of  honor — their  spears  were  ponderous, 
thick,  and  long,  and  with  their  short  broadsword,  con- 
stituted their  main  weapons  of  offense.  No  Greek 
army  marched  to  battle  without  vows  and  sacrifices 
and  prayers  ;  and  now,  in  the  stillness  of  the  pause, 
soothsayers  examined  the  entrails  of  the  victims  ;  they 
were  propitious,  and  Callimachus  solemnly  vowed  to 
Diana  a  victim  for  the  slaughter  of  every  foe.  Loud 
broke  the  trumpets  ;  the  standards,  wrought  with  the 
sacred  bird  of  Athens,  were  raised  on  high — it  was 
the  signal  of  battle — and  the  Athenians  rushed  with 
impetuous  vehemence  upon  the  Persian  power. 

Long,  fierce,  and  stubborn  was  the  battle.  Even- 
ing came  on  ; — confused  and  disorderly,  the  Persians 
now  only  thought  of  flight  ;  the  whole  army  retired 
to  their  ships,  hard  chased  by  the  Grecian  victors, 
who,  amid  the  carnage,  fired  the  fleet.  The  moon 
had  passed  her  full ;  the  battle  was  over  and  the  vic- 
tory won. 

Conspicuous  above  the  level  plain  of  Marathon, 
rises  a  long  barrow  fifteen  feet  in  height,  the  supposed 
sepulchre  of  the  Athenian  heroes. 

Still  does  a  romantic  legend,  not  unfamiliar  with 
our  traditions  of  the  north,  give  a  supernatural  terror 


AMERICA'S  SELF-GOVERNMENT.  145 

to  the  spot.  Nightly  along  the  plain  are  yet  heard  by 
superstition  the  neighings  of  chargers  and  the  rushing 
shadows  of  spectral  war.  And  still,  throughout  the 
civilized  world  men  of  every  clime,  of  every  political 
persuasion,  feel  as  Greeks  at  the  name  of  Marathon. 
Later  fields  have  presented  the  spectacle  of  an  equal 
valor,  and  almost  the  same  disparities  of  slaughter  ; 
but  never,  in  the  annals  of  earth,  were  united  so 
closely  in  our  applause  admiration  for  the  heroism  of 
the  victors,  and  sympathy  for  the  holiness  of  their 
cause.  It  was  the  first  great  victory  of  Opinion  !  and 
its  fruits  were  reaped,  not  by  Athens  only,  but  by  all 
Greece,  then,  as  by  all  time  thereafter,  in  a  mighty 
and  imperishable  harvest, — the  invisible  not  less  than 
the  actual  force  of  despotism  was  broken.  One  suc- 
cessful battle  for  liberty  quickens  and  exalts  that 
proud  and  emulous  spirit  from  which  are  called  forth 
the  civilization  and  arts  that  liberty  should  produce, 
more  rapidly  than  centuries  of  repose. 


THE    AMERICAN    EXPERIMENT    OF    SELF- 
GOVERNMENT. 

By  Edward  Everett,  Statesman,  Orator,  Author.  B.  1794, 
Massachusetts;  d.  1865,  Boston. 

We  are  summoned  to  new  energy  and  zeal  by  the 
high  nature  of  the  experiment  we  are  appointed  in 
Providence  to  make,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  theatre 
on  which  it  is  to  be  performed.  At  a  moment  of  deep 
and  general  agitation   in  the  Old  World,   it  pleased 


146  AMERICA'S  SELF-GOVERNMENT. 

heaven  to  open  this  last  refuge  of  humanity.  The 
attempt  has  begun,  and  is  going  on,  far  from  for- 
eign corruption,  on  the  broadest  scale,  and  under  the 
most  benignant  prospects ;  and  it  certainly  rests  with 
us  to  solve  the  great  problem  in  human  society, — to 
settle,  and  that  forever,  the  momentous  question, — 
whether  mankind  can  be  trusted  with  a  purely  popu- 
lar system  of  Government. 

One  might  almost  think,  without  extravagance,  that 
the  departed  wise  and  good  of  all  places  and  times, 
are  looking  down  from  their  happy  seats  to  witness 
what  shall  be  done  by  us  that  they  who  lavished  their 
treasures  and  their  blood,  of  old, — who  spake  and 
wrote,  who  labored,  fought  and  perished,  in  the  one 
great  cause  of  Freedom  and  Truth, — are  now  hanging 
from  their  orbs  on  high  over  the  last  solemn  experi- 
ment of  humanity.  As  I  have  wandered  over  the 
spots  once  the  scene  of  their  labors,  and  mused 
among  the  prostrate  columns  of  their  senate  houses 
and  forums,  I  have  seemed  almost  to  hear  a  voice 
from  the  tombs  of  departed  ages,  from  the  sepulchres 
of  the  Nations  which  died  before  the  light.  They 
exhort  us,  they  adjure  us,  to  be  faithful  to  our  trust. 
They  implore  us,  by  the  long  trials  of  struggling  hu- 
manity ;  by  the  blessed  memory  of  the  departed  ;  by 
the  dear  faith  which  has  been  plighted  by  pure  hands 
to  the  holy  cause  of  truth  and  man  ;  by  the  awful 
secrets  of  the  prison-house,  where  the  sons  of  freedom 
have  been  immured  ;  by  the  noble  heads  which  have 
been  brought  to  the  block  ;  by  the  wrecks  of  time,  by 
the  eloquent  ruins  of  Nations,  they  conjure  us  not  to 


EQUESTRIAN  COURTSHIP.  147 

quench  the  light  which  is  rising  on  the  world.  Greece 
cries  to  us  by  the  convulsed  lips  of  her  poisoned, 
dying  Demosthenes  ;  and  Rome  pleads  with  us  in  the 
mute  persuasion  of  her  mangled  Tally. 


EQUESTRIAN  COURTSHIP. 

By  Thomas  Hood,  Poet,   Humorist.     B.  1798,  England;  d 
1845. 

It  was  a  young  maiden  went  forth  to  ride, 
And  there  was  a  wooer  to  pace  by  her  side  ; 
His  horse  was  so  little,  and  hers  so  high, 
He  thought  his  angel  was  up  in  the  sky. 

His  love  was  great,  though  his  wit  was  small ; 
He  bade  her  ride  easy — and  that  was  all. 
The  very  horses  began  to  neigh, — 
Because  their  betters  had  nought  to  say. 

They  rode  by  elm,  and  they  rode  by  oak, 

They  rode  by  a  church-yard,  and  then  he  spoke ; 

"  My  pretty  maiden,  if  you'll  agree 

You  shall  always  ramble  through  life  with  me." 

The  damsel  answered  him  never  a  word. 

But  kicked  the  gray  mare,  and  away  she  spurred. 

The  wooer  still  followed  behind  the  jade, 

And  enjoyed — like  a  wooer— the  dust  she  made. 

They  rode  through  moss,  and  they  rode  through  moor, 
The  gallant  behind,  and  the  lass  before  ; 


148       THE  SPARTANS  AND  THE  PILGRIMS, 

At  last  they  came  to  a  miry  place, 

And  there  the  sad  wooer  gave  up  the  chase. 

Quoth  he,  "  If  my  nag  were  better  to  ride, 

I'd  follow  her  over  the  world  so  wide. 

O,  it  is  not  my  love  that  begins  to  fail, 

But  I've  lost  the  last  glimpse  of  the  gray  mare's  tail ! " 


THE  SPARTANS  AND  THE  PILGRIMS. 

By  RuFUS  Choate,  Orator,  Lawyer.  B.  1799,  Massachusetts  ; 
d,  1859,  Nova  Scotia. 

The  battle  of  Thermopyls  was  fought  in  July,  480  B.C.  The 
"Pilgrim  Fathers"  landed  at  Plymouth  Rock,  Plymouth  Bay, 
thirty-seven  miles  southeast  of  Boston,  Dec.  22,  1620. 

If  one  were  called  upon  to  select  the  most  glitter- 
ing of  the  instances  of  military  heroism  to  which  the 
admiration  of  the  world  has  been  most  constantly 
attracted,  he  would  make  choice,  I  imagine,  of  the 
instance  of  that  desperate  valor,  in  which,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  laws,  Leonidas  and  his  three  hundred 
Spartans  cast  themselves  headlong,  at  the  passes  of 
Greece,  on  the  myriads  of  their  Persian  invaders. 

Judge  if,  that  night,  as  they  watched  the  dawn  of 
the  last  morning  their  eyes  could  ever  see  ;  as  they 
heard  with  every  passing  hour  the  stilly  hum  of  che 
invading  host  ;  as  they  remembered  their  unprofaned 
home,  city  of  heroes  and  mother  of  heroes,  judge  if, 
watching  there,  the  sentiment  of  heroism  did  not  grow 
to  the  nature  of  madness  ;  and  when  morning  came  and 
passed,  and  they  had  dressed  their  long  hair  for  battle, 


THE  SPARTANS  AND  THE  PILGRIMS.        I49 

and  when  the  countless  invading  throng  was  seen  at 
last  to  move,  was  it  not  with  rapture  that  they  cast 
themselves,  with  the  fierce  gladness  of  mountain  tor- 
rents, headlong  upon  that  brief  revelry  of  glory  ? 

And  yet,  do  you  not  think  that  whoso  could,  by 
adequate  description,  bring  before  you  that  winter  of 
the  Pilgrims, — its  brief  sunshine  ;  the  nights  of  storm, 
slow  waning  ;  its  damp  and  icy  breath,  its  destitutions, 
its  utter  insulation  and  loneliness,  its  death-beds  and 
burials,  its  memories,  its  apprehensions,  its  hopes ;  do 
you  not  think  that  he  who  could  describe  them  calmly 
waiting  in  that  defile,  lonelier  and  darker  than  Ther- 
mopylae, would  sketch  a  scene  of  more  difficult  and 
rarer  heroism  ? 

I  deem  it  a  great  thing  for  a  nation,  in  all  the 
periods  of  its  fortunes,  to  be  able  to  look  back  to 
a  race  of  founders,  and  a  principle  of  institution  in 
which  it  might  rationally  admire  the  realized  idea  of 
true  heroism.  That  felicity,  that  pride,  that  help,  is 
ours.  Those  heroic  men  and  women  should  not  look 
down  on  a  dwindled  prosperity.  That  broad  founda- 
tion, sunk  below  frost  or  earthquake,  should  bear  up 
something  more  permanent  than  an  encampment  of 
tents,  pitched  at  random,  and  struck  when  the  trum- 
pet of  march  sounds  at  next  daybreak.  It  should 
bear  up,  as  by  a  natural  growth,  a  structure  in  which 
generations  may  come,  one  after  another,  to  the  great 
gift  of  the  social  life. 


150  THE  FINDING  OF    THE  LYRE. 


THE  FINDING  OF  THE  LYRE. 

By  James  Russell  Lowell,  Poet,  Critic.  Professor,  Minister 
to  England.     B.  1819,  Massachusetts. 

There  lay  upon  the  ocean's  shore 
What  once  a  tortoise  served  to  cover. 
A  year  and  more,  with  rush  and  roar, 
The  surf  had  rolled  it  over, 
Had  played  with  it,  had  flung  it  by, 
As  wind  and  weather  might  decide  it. 
Then  tossed  it  high  where  sand-drifts  dry 
Cheap  burial  might  provide  it. 

It  rested  there  to  bleach  or  tan. 

The  rains  had  soaked,  the  suns  had  burned  it ; 

With  many  a  ban  the  fisherman 

Had  stumbled  o'er  and  spurn'd  it ; 

And  there  the  fisher-girl  would  stay, 

Conjecturing  with  her  brother 

How  in  their  play  the  poor  estray 

Might  serve  some  use  or  other. 

So  there  it  lay,  through  wet  and  dry. 

As  empty  as  the  last  new  sonnet, 

Till  by  and  by  came  Mercury, 

And,  having  mused  upon  it, 

"Why,  here,"  cried  he,  "  the  thing  of  things 

In  shape,  material,  and  dimension  ! 

Give  it  but  strings,  and,  lo,  it  sings,  • 

A  wonderful  invention  !  " 


THE  REIGN  OF  NAPOLEOX.  151 

So  said,  so  done  ;  the  chords  he  strained, 
And,  as  his  fingers  o'er  them  hovered, 
The  shell  disdained  a  soul  had  gained, 
The  lyre  had  been  discovered. 
O  empty  world  that  round  us  lies, 
Dead  shell,  of  soul  and  thought  forsaken, 
Brought  we  but  eyes  like  Mercury's, 
In  thee  what  songs  should  waken  ! 


THE  REIGN  OF  NAPOLEON. 

By  Alphonse  Lamartine,  Poet,  Statesman,  Historian.  B. 
1792,  France ;  d.  1869. 

From  the  "  History  of  the  Restoration,"  translated  by  W.  H. 
Dean. 

The  reign  of  Napoleon  may  be  defined  as  the  old 
world  reconstructed  by  a  new  man.  He  plastered 
over  with  glory  the  threadbare  centuries.  He  was 
the  first  among  soldiers  but  not  among  statesmen. 
He  was  open  to  the  past,  but  blind  to  the  future.  If 
this  judgment  be  found  too  harsh,  a  mere  glance  will 
serve  to  convince  one  of  its  justice.  Men  are  judged 
not  by  their  fortune,  but  by  their  work.  He  had  in 
his  hand  the  greatest  force  Providence  ever  placed  in 
the  hand  of  a  mortal  to  create  a  civilization  or  a 
nationality.  What  has  he  left  ?  Nothing  but  a  con- 
quered country  and  an  immortal  name.  The  world 
demanded  a  renovator.  He  made  himself  its  con- 
queror. France  was  looking  forward  to  the  genius 
of  reform,  and  he  gave  her  despotism,  discipline  and 
a  uniform  for  each  institution.     Impiety  covered  all 


152  THE    BOYS. 

the  ofifacial  pomp  of  his  creed.  Instead  of  seeking 
rehgion  in  liberty  he  was  eight  centuries  out  of  the 
way  in  parodying  the  role  of  Charlemagne,  without 
having  either  the  strong  faith  or  the  heroic  sincerity 
of  this  Constantine  of  Gaul  and  Germany.  To  the 
need  of  equality  of  rights,  he  replied  with  the  creation 
of  a  military  nobility  ;  to  the  needs  of  free  thought, 
with  the  censure  and  monopoly  of  the  press.  Intelli- 
gence languished.  Letters  became  degraded,  the  arts 
became  servile  and  ideas  died.  Victory  alone  could 
restrain  the  explosion  of  the  independence  of  the 
people  and  the  human  spirit.  The  day  when  victory 
should  cease  to  gild  this  yoke  of  the  universe,  it  would 
appear  what  it  was  :  the  glory  of  one,  the  humiliation 
of  all  ;  a  reproach  to  the  dignity  of  the  people,  a  call 
to  the  insurrection  of  the  continent. 


THE  BOYS. 

By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Poet,  Author,  Professor.  B. 
1809,  Massachusetts. 

A  poem  read  in  1859  at  the  thirtieth  reunion  of  the  Class  of  '29 
of  Harvard  University. 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys  ? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite  ! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar  !     We're  twenty  to-night ! 

We're  twenty  !     We're   twenty  !     Who    says  we  are 

more? 
He's  tipsy, — young  jackanapes  ! — show  him  the  door  • 


THE    BOYS.  153 

"Gray  temples    at   twenty?" — Yes!    white,    if    we 

please  ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there's  nothing  can 

freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the  mistake  ! 
Look  close, — you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake  ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed, — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been 

told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  ; 
That   boy    we    call     "  Doctor,"   and     this    we    call 

"  Judge "  ;— 

It's  a  neat  little  fiction, — of  course  it's  all  fudge. 
******* 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 

And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was  inte  ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in, — a  good  joke  it  was  too  t 
******* 

And  there's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith, — 

Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith, 

But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free, — 

Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country,"  "  of  thee  !  " 

You  hear  that   boy    laughing  ? — You  think  he's    all 

fun  ; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done  ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest   of 

all! 


154  THE    WASHINGTON  MONUMENT. 

Yes,  we're  boys, — always  [)laying  with  tongue  or  with 

pen  ; 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drop  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children.  The  Boys. 


THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT. 

By  Robert  Charles  WiNTHROP,  Statesman.  B.  1809,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

The  corner-stone  of  the  Washington  monument  at  Washington, 
D.C.,  was  laid  July  4,  1848,  and  the  following  is  a  portion  of  the 
address  delivered  on  that  occasion  by  Mr.  Winthrop,  then  Speaker 
of  the  House  of  Representatives.  The  monument  was  completed 
in  1885. 

Let  us  seize  this  occasion  to  renew  to  each  other 
our  vows  of  allegiance  and  devotion  to  the  American 
Union,  and  let  us  recognize  in  our  common  title  to 
the  name  and  fame  of  Washington,  and  in  our  venera- 
tion for  his  example  and  advice,  the  all-sufficient  cen- 
tripetal power  which  shall  hold  the  thick-clustering 
stars  of  our  confederacy  in  one  glorious  constellation 
forever.  Let  the  column  we  are  about  to  construct  be 
at  once  a  pledge  and  an  emblem  of  perpetual  union. 
Let  the  foundations  be  laid,  let  the  superstructure  be 
built  up  and  cemented,  let  each  stone  be  laid  and 
riveted,  in  a  spirit  of  national  brotherhood.  And  may 
the  earliest  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  till  that  sun  shall 


THE    IVASHINGTO.V  MONUMENT.  155 

set  to  rise  no  more,  draw  forth  from  it  daily,  as  from 
the  fabled  statue  of  antiquity,  a  strain  of  national 
harmony  which  strikes  a  responsive  chord  in  every 
heart  throughout  the  Republic. 

Proceed,  then,  with  the  work  for  which  you  have 
assembled.  Lay  the  corner-stone  of  a  monument 
which  shall  adequately  bespeak  the  gratitude  of  the 
whole  American  people  to  the  illustrious  Father  of 
his  Country.  Build  it  to  the  skies, — you  cannot  out- 
reach the  loftiness  of  his  principles.  Found  it  upon 
the  massive  and  eternal  rock, — you  cannot  make  it 
more  enduring  than  his  fame.  Construct  it  of  the 
peerless  Parian  marble,  you  cannot  make  it  purer  than 
his  life.  Exhaust  upon  it  the  rules  and  principles  of 
ancient  and  modern  art, — you  cannot  make  it  more 
proportionate  than  his  character. 

But  let  not  your  hornage  to  his  memory  end  here. 
Think  not  to  transfer  to  a  tablet  or  a  column  the 
tribute  which  is  due  from  yourselves.  Just  honor  to 
Washington  can  only  be  rendered  by  observing  his 
precepts  and  imitating  his  example.  He  has  built  his 
own  monument.  We,  and  those  who  come  after  us 
in  successive  generations,  are  its  appointed,  its  privi- 
leged guardians. 

The  widespread  Republic  is  the  true  monument  to 
Washington.  Maintain  its  independence  ;  uphold  its 
constitution  ;  preserve  its  union  ;  defend  its  liberty. 
Let  it  stand  before  the  world  in  all  its  original  strength 
and  beauty,  securing  peace,  order,  equality  and  free- 
dom to  all  within  its  boundaries,  and  shedding  liglit 
and  hope  and  joy  upon  the  pathway  of  human  liberty 


156  WOUNDED. 

throughout  the  world,  and  Washington  needs  no  other 
monument.  Other  structures  may  fitly  test  our  venera- 
tion for  him  ;  this,  this  alone  can  adequately  illustrate 
his  services  to  mankind.  Nor  does  he  need  even  this. 
The  Republic  may  perish,  the  wide  arch  of  our  ranged 
Union  may  fall,  star  by  star  its  glories  may  expire, 
stone  by  stone  its  column  and  its  capital  may  crumble, 
all  other  names  which  adorn  its  annals  may  be  for- 
gotten, but,  as  long  as  human  hearts  shall  anywhere 
pant,  or  human  tongues  shall  anywhere  plead  for  a 
true,  rational,  constitutional  liberty,  those  hearts  shall 
enshrme  the  memory,  and  those  tongues  prolong  the 
fame  of  George  Washington. 


WOUNDED. 
By  John  Whitaker  Watson,  Poet.     B.  1824,  New  York. 

Steady,  boys,  steady  ! 

Keep  your  arms  ready, 
God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here. 

Don't  let  me  be  taken  ; 

I'd  rather  awaken. 
To-morrow,  in — no  matter  where, 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hole  over  there. 

Step  slowly  ! 

Speak  lowly ! 
These  rocks  may  have  life. 
Lay  me  down  in  this  hollow ; 
We  are  out  of  the  strife. 


WOUNDED.  157 

By  heavens  !  the  foeman  may  track  me  in  blood, 
For  this  hole  in  my  breast  is  outpouring  a  flood. 
No  !  no  surgeon  for  me  ;  he  can  give  me  no  aid  ; 
The  surgeon  I  want  is  pick-axe  and  spade. 
What,  Morris,  a  tear  ?     Why,  shame  on  you,  man  ! 
I  thought  you  a  hero ;  but  since  you  began 
To  whimper  and  cry  like  a  girl  in  her  teens, 
By  George  !  I  don't  know  what  the  devil  it  means  ! 

Well  !  well  !     I  am  rough  ;  'tis  a  very  rough  school, 
This  life  of  a  trooper, — but  yet  I'm  no  fool ! 
I  know  a  brave  man,  and  a  friend  from  a  foe ; 
And,  boys,  that  you  love  me  I  certainly  know  ; 

But  wasn't  it  grand 
When  they  came  down  the  hill  over  sloughing  and 

sand  ! 
But  we  stood — did  we  not? — like  immovable  rock, 
Unheeding  their  bails  and  repelling  their  shock. 

Did  you  mind  the  loud  cry 

When,  as  turning  to  fly, 
Our  men  sprang  upon  them,  determined  to  die  ? 

O,  wasn't  it  grand  ! 

God  help  the  poor  wretches  that  fell  in  that  fight ; 
No  time  was  there  given  for  prayer  or  for  flight ; 
They  fell  by  the  score,  in  the  crash,  hand  in  hand, 
And  they  mingled  their  blood  with  the  sloughing  and 
sand. 

Huzza  ! 
Great  heavens  !  this  bullet-hole  gapes  like  a  grave  ; 
A  curse  cjn  the  aim  of  the  lraitor(jus  knave  ! 


158  WOUNDED. 

Is  there  never  a  one  of  you  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away  ? 
Pray! 

Pray! 

Our  Father  !  our  Father  !  why  don't  ye  proceed  ? 
Can't  you  see  I  am  dying  ?     Great  God,  how  I  bleed  ! 
Ebbing  away  ! 

Ebbing  away  ! 

The  light  of  the  day 

Is  turning  so  gray. 

Pray! 

Pray! 

Our  Father  in  Heaven — boys,  tell  me  the  rest, 
While  I  stanch  the  hot  blood  from  this  hole  in  my 

breast. 
There's  something  about  a  forgiveness  of  sin. 
Put  that  in  !  put  that  in  ! — and  then 
I'll  follow  your  words  and  say  an  amen. 

Here,  Morris,  old  fellow,  get  hold  of  my  hand  ; 
And,  Wilson,  my  comrade — O,  wasn't  it  grand 
When  they  came  down  the  hill  like  a  thunder-charged 

cloud  ! 
Where's   Wilson,   my  comrade  ? — Here,  stoop  down 

your  head  ; 
Can't  you  say  a  short  prayer  for  the  dying  and  dead  ? 

"  Christ  God,  who  died  for  sinners  all 
Hear  thou  this  suppliant  wanderer's  cry; 

Let  not  e'en  this  poor  sparrow  fall 
Unheeded  by  thy  gracious  eye. 


AMERICAN  RIGHTS.  I59 

Throw  wide  thy  gates  to  let  him  in, 

And  take  him,  pleading,  to  thine  arms  ; 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  his  life-long  sin, 
And  quiet  all  his  fierce  alarms." 

God  bless  you,  my  comrade,  for  singing  that  hymn  ; 
It  is  light  to  my  path  when  my  eye  has  grown  dim. 
I  am  dying — bend  down  till  I  touch  you  once  more — 
Don't  forget  me,  old  fellow, — God  prosper  this  war  ! 
Confusion  to  enemies  ! — keep  hold  of  my  hand  — 
And  float  our  dear  flag  o'er  a  prosperous  land  ! 


AMERICAN  RIGHTS. 

By  Joseph  Warrex,  Patriot.     B.  1741,  Massachusetts;  killed  at 
the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  June  17,  1775. 

Pardon  me,  my  fellow-citizens,  I  know  you  want 
not  zeal  or  fortitude.  You  will  maintain  your  rights, 
or  perish  in  the  generous  struggle.  However  difficult 
the  combat,  you  never  will  decline  it  when  freedom  is 
the  prize.  An  independence  of  Great  Britain  is  not 
our  aim.  No,  our  wish  is,  that  Britain  and  the  colo- 
nies may,  like  the  oak  and  ivy,  grow  and  increase  in 
strength  together.  But  whilst  the  infatuated  plan  of 
making  one  part  of  the  empire  slaves  to  the  other 
is  persisted  in,  the  interests  and  safety  of  Britain, 
as  well  as  of  the  colonies,  require  that  the  wise 
measures,  recommended  by  the  honorable  the  Con- 
tinental Congress,  be  steadily  pursued  ;  whereby  the 
unnatural  contest  between  a   parent   iionored  ami   a 


l6o  AMERICAN  RIGHTS. 

child  beloved,  may  probably  be  brought  to  such  an 
issue,  as  that  the  peace  and  happiness  of  both  may  be 
on  an  established  basis.  But  if  these  pacific  measures 
are  ineffectual,  and  it  appears  that  the  only  way  to 
safety  is  through  fields  of  blood,  I  know  you  will 
not  turn  your  faces  from  your  foes,  but  will,  undaun- 
tedly, press  forward,  until  tyranny  is  trodden  under 
foot,  and  you  have  fixed  your  adored  goddess  Liberty, 
fast  by  a  Brunswick's  side,  on  the  American  throne. 

You,  then,  who  have  nobly  espoused  your  country's 
cause,  who  generously  have  sacrificed  wealth  and  ease; 
who  have  despised  the  pomp  and  show  of  tinseled 
greatness  ;  refused  the  summons  to  the  festive  board; 
been  deaf  to  the  alluring  calls  of  luxury  and  mirth ; 
who  have  forsaken  the  downy  pillow  to  keep  your 
vigils  by  the  midnight  lamp  for  the  salvation  of  your 
invaded  country,  that  you  might  break  the  fowler's 
snare,  and  disappoint  the  vulture  of  his  prey  ; — you, 
then,  will  reap  that  harvest  of  renown  which  you  so 
justly  have  deserved.  Your  country  shall  pay  her 
grateful  tribute  of  applause.  Even  the  children  of 
your  most  inveterate  enemies,  ashamed  to  tell  from 
whom  they  sprang,  while  they,  in  secret,  curse  their 
stupid,  cruel  parents,  shall  join  the  general  voice  of 
gratitude  of  those  who  broke  the  fetters  which  their 
fathers  forged. 

Having  redeemed  your  country,  and  secured  the 
blessing  to  future  generations,  who,  fired  by  your  ex- 
ample, shall  emulate  your  virtues,  and  learn  from  you 
the  heavenly  art  of  making  millions  happy  ;  with 
heartfelt  joy,  with  transports  all  your  own,  you  cry. 


CONSTITUTIONAL   CONVENTION  OF  1787.    161 

•'The  glorious  work  is  done  !  "  then  drop  the  mantle 
to  some  Elisha,  and  take  your  seats  with  kindred 
spirits  in  your  native  skies  ! 


THE    CONSTITUTIONAL    CONVENTION 

OF  1787. 

By  Chauncey   Mitchell    Depew,    Lawyer,    Orator,   Railroad 
President.     B.  1834,  New  York. 

The  Constitutional  Convention  of  1787  was  held  in  Philadelphia 
in  May.  Representatives  from  all  the  States  except  Rhode  Island 
were  present,  with  Washington  as  president.  As  a  result  of  their 
deliberations  the  Federal  Constitution  was  adopted  in  September, 
setting  aside  the  Articles  of  Confederation,  which  had  not  given 
adequate  power  to  the  General  Government. 

This  oration  was  delivered  April  30,  1889,  from  the  steps  of  the 
Sub-Treasury  Building,  Xew  York  City,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Washington  Centennial  Celebration. 

The  deliberations  of  great  councils  have  vitally 
affected,  at  different  periods,  the  history  of  the  world 
and  the  fate  of  empires  ;  but  this  Congress  builded, 
upon  popular  sovereignty,  institutions  broad  enough 
to  embrace  the  continent  and  elastic  enough  to  fit  all 
conditions  of  race  and  traditions.  The  experience  of 
a  hundred  years  has  demonstrated  for  us  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  work,  for  defense  against  foreign  foes  and 
for  self-preservation  against  domestic  insurrection,  for 
limitless  expansion  in  population  and  material  devel- 
opment, and  for  steady  growth  in  intellectual  freedom 
and  force.  Its  continuing  influence  upon  the  welfare 
and  destiny  of  the  human  race  can  only  be  measure<l 
by  the  capacity  of  man  to  cultivate  and  enjoy  the 
boundless  opportunities  of  liberty  and  law. 


l62    CONSTITUTIONAL   CONVENTION  OF  1787. 

The  Statesmen  who  composed  this  great 

Senate  were  equal  to  their  trust 

There  were  no  examples  to  follow,  and  the  experi- 
ence of  its  members  led  part  of  them  to  lean  toward 
absolute  centralization  as  the  only  refuge  from  the 
anarchy  of  tne  Confederation,  while  the  rest  clung  to 
the  sovereignty  of  the  States  for  fear  that  the  concen- 
tration of  power  would  end  in  the  absorption  of 
liberty.  The  large  States  did  not  want  to  surrender 
the  advantage  of  their  position,  and  the  smaller  States 
saw  the  danger  to  their  existence.  The  leagues  of 
the  Greek  cities  had  ended  in  loss  of  freedom,  tyranny, 
conquest,  and  destruction.  Roman  conquest  and 
assimilation  had  strewn  the  shores  of  time  with  the 
wrecks  of  empires  and  plunged  civilization  into  the 
perils  and  horrors  of  the  dark  ages.  The  government 
of  Cromwell  was  the  isolated  power  of  the  mightiest 
man  of  his  age,  without  popular  authority  to  fill  his 
place  or  the  hereditary  principle  to  protect  his  suc- 
cessor. I'he  past  furnished  no  light  for  our  State 
builders,  the  present  was  full  of  doubt  and  despair. 
The  future,  the  experiment  of  self-government,  the 
perpetuity  and  development  of  freedom,  almost  the 
destiny  of  mankind,  was  in  their  hands. 

At  this  crisis  the  courage  and  confidence  needed  to 
originate  a  system  weakened.  The  temporizing  spirit 
of  comprom^ise  seized  the  convention  with  the  alluring 
proposition  of  not  .proceeding  faster  than  the  people 
could  be  educated  to  follow.  The  cry  :  "  Let  us  not 
waste  our  labor  upon  conclusions  which  will  not  be 
adopted,  but   amend   and    adjourn,"    was  assuming 


THE  BURGHERS  OF  CALAIS.  163 

startling  unanimity.  But  the  supreme  force  and  majes- 
tic sense  of  Washington  brought  the  assemblage  to  the 
lofty  plane  of  its  duty  and  opportunity.  He  said: 
"  It  is  too  probable  that  no  plan  we  propose  will  be 
adopted.  Perhaps  another  dreadful  conflict  is  to  be 
sustained.  If  to  please  the  people  we  offer  what  we 
ourselves  disapprove,  how  can  we  afterward  defend 
our  work  ?  Let  us  raise  a  standard  to  which  the  wise 
and  honest  can  repair  ;  the  event  is  in  the  hands  of 
God."  "lam  the  State,"  said  Louis  XIV.,  but  his 
line  ended  in  the  grave  of  absolutism.  "  Forty  cen- 
turies look  down  upon  you,"  was  Napoleon's  address 
to  his  army  in  the  shadow  of  the  pyramids,  but  his 
soldiers  saw  only  the  dream  of  Eastern  empire  vanish 
in  blood.  Statesmen  and  Parliamentary  leaders  have 
sunk  into  oblivion  or  led  their  party  to  defeat  by  sur- 
rendering their  convictions  to  the  passing  passions  of 
the  hour,  but  Washington  in  this  immortal  speech 
struck  the  keynote  of  representative  obligation,  and 
propounded  the  fundamental  principle  of  the  purity 
and  perpetuity  of  constitutional  government. 


THE  BURGHERS  OF  CALAIS. 
By  Emily  A.  Braddock. 

Calais,  a  city  of  France,  was  besieged  and  taken  by    Edward 
III.,  king  of  England,  in  1347. 

Philippa  of  Hainault,  the  Good,  Philippa,  England's 

Queen, 
Rear  high  her  statue — let  it  by  all  the  world  be  seen  ! 


r64  THE  BURGHERS  OF  CALAIS. 

A  figure — not  in  armor  clad,  sword-girt,  on  prancing 
steed, 

From  Nevil's  Cross  the  routed  Scots  waving  across 
the  Tweed — 

Nay,  nay,  but  kneeling,  with  loose  hair,  clasped  hands 
upraised  to  pray, 

And  tear-dimmed  eyes,  as  when  she  saved  the  burgh- 
ers of  Calais. 

"  Now,   by  my  troth,"  had   Edward    sworn,  *'  Calais 

shall  yield  to  me  ! 
If  England  France   shall  keep  in  ward  'tis  meet  she 

hold  the  key." 
But  vain   was  menace,  vain   was  siege  to  make  its 

castle  bow — 
Twelve  weary  months  dragged  on  to  mock  the  proud 

king's  empty  vow  ; 
Till  Famine   skulked  within   at  last  and  won   for  him 

the  day. 
And  England's  lion  glared  above  the  lilies  of  Calais. 

"  Bring  forth,  curst  Town,"  the  conqueror  cried,  "  six 

of  thy  burghers  best. 
For  such  vile  headstrongness  to  be  an  offering  for  the 

rest ! 
Bare-legg'd,  with  ropes  about  their  necks,   so  lead 

them  forth  to  me, 
The   keys  within   their  hands,  nor, look  their  coming 

back  to  see  !  " 
The  haughty  summons  thundering  burst,  no  place  it 

gave  delay, 


THE  BURGHERS  OE  CALAIS.  165 

And  there  was  loud  lament  and  there  was  weeping  in 
Calais. 

Then  up  spoke  Eustace  de  St.  Pierre  —  all  honor  to 
his  name  ! 

"I  give  myself,  for  one  to  save  the  town  from  woe 
and  shame." 

"And  I!"  "and  I!"  right  after  him  cried  noble 
others,  five  ; 

"What  matter  if  there  perish  six  to  keep  the  rest 
alive?" 

In  truth  it  was  a  sorry  sight  —  in  truth  a  sorry  day, 

When  from  the  gates  went  forth  to  deatli  those  burgh- 
ers of  Calais. 

"Strike  off  their  heads!"  stern  Edward  order  gave, 

full  fierce  and  loud. 
Helpless  and  mute  before  his  feet  the  dauntless  six 

were  bowed. 
'Twas  then   Philippa  knelt :    "  My  lord,   oh  !   if  you 

will  not  free 
These  men  for  mercy's  own  sweet  sake,  do  it  for  love 

of  me  ! " 
"  Alas  !  that  you  have  asked,  my  queen,  since  ne'er  I 

say  you  nay  !  " 
And  to  her  tender  hands  he   gave  the  burghers  of 

Calais. 

Right   royally  she   feasted  them,  right  bravely  them 

she  drest. 
For  ropes  gave  chains  of  gold  to  wear,  as  fitted  noble 

guest ; 


1 66  THE  BOOK  AND   THE  BUILDING. 

Gifts  from  her  treasury  she  brought,  her  minstrels  for 

them  sang, 
And  all  the  camp  with  shouts  of  joy  as  for  a  victory 

rang  ; 
And  when  she  sped  them,  cheered  and  bless'd,  upon 

their  homeward  way, 
They  deemed  an  angel  gave  them  back  again  unto 

Calais. 

Philippa  of  Hainault,  the  Good,  Philippa,  England's 
Queen  — 

Rear  high  her  statue  —  let  it  by  all  the  world  be  seen  ! 

A  figure  —  not  in  armor  clad,  sword-girt,  on  prancing 
steed, 

From  Nevil's  Cross  the  routed  Scots  waving  across 
the  Tweed  — 

Nay,  nay,  but  kneeling  with  loose  hair,  clasped  hands 
upraised  to  pray, 

And  tear-dimmed  eyes,  as  when  she  saved  the  burgh- 
ers of  Calais. 


THE  BOOK  AND  THE  BUILDING. 

By  Richard  Salter  Storrs,  Clergyman.  B.  1821,  Massachu- 
setts ;  lives  in  Brooklyn,  New  York. 

The  cathedral  of  Cologne,  one  of  the  noblest  specimens  of 
Gothic  architecture  in  Europe,  was  begun  1270-75  and  completed 
in  1880. 

On  the  bank  of  the  Rhine,  on  the  site  of  the  ancient 
Roman  camp,  afterward  an  imperial  colony,  which  is 
associated  in  history  with  Tiberius  and  Germanicus, 
with  Agrippina,  mother  of  Nero,  and   with  the   early 


THE  BOOK  AND    THE  BUILDING.  167 

fame  of  Trajan,  has  been  recently  completed  a  mag- 
nificent work  of  religion  and  of  art,  of  which  more 
than  six  centuries  have  witnessed  the  progress.  After 
delays  immensely  protracted,  after  such  changes  in 
society  and  government,  in  letters,  arts,  and  in  pre- 
valent forms  of  religious  faith,  that  the  age  which  saw 
its  solemn  foundation  has  come  to  seem  almost  myth- 
ical to  us,  by  contributions  in  which  people  have  vied 
with  princes,  and  in  which  separated  countries  and 
communions  have  gladly  united,  the  cathedral  of 
Cologne  has  been  carried  to  its  superb  consummation, 
and  the  last  finial  has  been  set  upon  the  spires  which 
at  length  fulfill  the  architect's  design. 

Attendant  pomps  of  imperial  pageantry  were  nat- 
urally assembled  on  such  an  occasion  ;  but  they  can 
have  added  no  real  impressiveness  to  the  structure  it- 
self, with  its  solid  strength  matching  its  lofty  and 
lovely  proportions,  the  vast  columns  of  the  nave  lifting 
upon  plume-like  pillars,  the  majestic  choir  of  stone 
and  glass,  with  its  soft  brilliance  and  exquisite  tracery, 
beautiful  as  a  poet's  dream,  the  soaring  open-work  of 
the  spires  absorbing  and  moulding  hills  of  rock  in 
their  supreme  and  ethereal  grace.  It  seems  impos- 
sible not  to  apply  to  it  the  words  which  Gibbon  applied 
to  St.  Peter's  :  "  the  most  glorious  structure  that  ever 
has  been  applied  to  the  use  of  religion." 

^  afC  3|e  ^  (fC  •)£  3fC 

It  is  a  work  at  first  sight  insignificant  in  comparison 
with  this,  which  we  have  met  to  commemorate  this 
evening  :  the  translation  of  the  Scriptures  into  the 
common  English    tongue,  begun   by  John    Wycliffe 


l68    THE  DECLARA  TION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

five  centuries  ago,  and  brought  to  completeness  in 
these  recent  days  by  the  hands  of  English  and  Amer- 
ican scholars.  It  may  seem  that  the  vision  of  the 
majestic  cathedral  is  too  stately  and  splendid  to  be  set 
in  front  of  a  story  so  simple,  and  in  parts  so  familiar, 
as  that  which  we  are  to  recall.  But  I  think  it  will 
appear  that  the  work  which  we  celebrate  is  the  nobler 
of  the  two  ;  that  from  all  the  costly  and  skillful  labors, 
now  completed  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  we  arise  to 
this  :  even  as  there,  one  advances  to  the  altar,  supreme 
in  its  significance,  through  the  decorated  doorways, 
along  the  vast  nave,  and  under  the  rhythmic  and 
haughty  arches.  To  us,  at  least,  the  voice  of  God 
becomes  articulate  through  the  book;  while  the  build- 
ing only  shows  us  the  magnificent  achievement  of 
human  genius,  patience,  and  wealth,  bringing  to  Him 
their  unsurpassed  tribute. 


THE    DECLARATION    OF    INDEPENDENCE. 

By  Carl  Schurz,  Statesman,  Journalist,  Director  Hamburg- 
American  Steamship  Co.,  New  York.     B.  1829,  Prussia. 

Let  your  imagination  carry  you  back  to  the  year 
1776.  You  stand  in  the  hall  of  the  old  Colonial  Court 
House,  of  Philadelphia.  Through  the  open  door  you 
see  the  Continental  Congress  assembled  ;  the  moment 
for  a  great  decision  is  drawing  near. 

The  first  little  impulses  to  the  general  upheaval  of 
the  popular  spirit,  the  Tea  Tax,  the  Stamp  Act,  drop 
into  insignificance  ;    they  are  almost  forgotten  ;    the 


THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE.    169 

revolutionary  spirit  has  risen  far  above  them.  It  puts 
the  claim  to  independence  upon  the  broad  basis  of 
eternal  rights,  as  self-evident  as  the  sun,  as  broad  as 
the  world,  as  common  as  the  air  of  heaven. 

The  struggle  of  the  colonies  against  the  usurping 
government  of  Great  Britain,  has  risen  to  the  proud 
dimensions  of  a  struggle  of  man  for  liberty  and  equal- 
ity. Not  only  the  supremacy  of  old  England  is  to  be 
shaken  off,  but  a  new  organization  of  society  is  to  be 
built  up,  on  the  basis  of  liberty  and  equality.  That  is 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  !  That  is  the 
American  Revolution  ! 

It  is  a  common  thing  that  men  of  a  coarse  cast  of 
mind  so  lose  themselves  in  the  mean  pursuit  of  selfish 
ends,  as  to  become  insensible  to  the  grand  and  sub- 
lime. Measuring  every  character,  and  every  event  in 
history,  by  the  low  standard  of  their  own  individu- 
alities, incapable  of  grasping  broad  and  generous 
ideas,  they  will  belittle  every  great  thing  they  cannot 
deny,  and  drag  down  every  struggle  of  principle  to 
the  sordid  arena  of  aspiring  selfishness. 

Eighteen  hundred  years  ago  there  were  men  who 
saw  in  incipient  Christianity  nothing  but  a  mere 
wrangle  between  Jewish  theologians,  gotten  up  by  a 
carpenter's  boy,  and  carried  on  by  a  few  crazy  fish- 
erman. Three  hundred  years  ago  there  were  men 
who  saw  in  the  great  reformatory  movement  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  not  the  emancipation  of  the  indi- 
vidual conscience,  but  a  mere  fuss  raised  by  a  German 
monk,  who  wanted  to  get  married.  Two  hundred 
years   ago  there  were   men   who  saw   in   Hampden's 


I70      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

refusal  to  pay  the  ship's  money,  not  a  bold  vindication 
of  constitutional  liberty,  but  the  crazy  antics  of  a 
man  who  was  mean  enough  to  quarrel  about  a  few 
shillings. 

And  now,  there  are  men  who  see  in  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  and  the  American  Revolution,  not 
the  reorganization  of  human  society  upon  a  basis  of 
liberty  and  equality,  but  a  dodge  of  some  English 
colonists  who  were  unwilling  to  pay  their  taxes. 

It  is  in  vain  for  demagogism  to  raise  its  short 
arms  against  the  truth  of  history.  The  Declaration  of 
Independence  stands  there.  No  candid  man  ever 
read  it  without  seeing  and  feeling  that  every  word  of 
it  was  dictated  by  deep  and  earnest  thought,  and 
that  every  sentence  of  it  bears  the  stamp  of  philosophic 
generality. 

It  is  the  summing  up  of  the  results  of  the  philo- 
sophical development  of  the  age  ;  the  practical  em- 
bodiment of  the  progressive  ideas,  which  far  from 
being  confined  to  the  narrow  limits  of  the  English 
colonies,  pervaded  the  very  atmosphere  of  all  civilized 
countries. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

By  Stephen  Grover  Cleveland,  Statesman,  President  of  the 
United  States.     B.  1837,  New  Jersey. 

This  speech  was  delivered  on  the  evening-  of  April  30,  1889,  at 
a  banquet  given  to  distinguished  guests  in  New  York  City  during 
the  Washington  Centennial  Celebration. 

Wherever  human  government  has  been  adminis- 
tered in  tyranny,  in  despotism,  or  in  oppression,  there 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.      171 

has  been  found  among  the  governed,  yearning  for  a 
freer  condition  and  the  assertion  of  man's  nobility. 
These  are  but  the  faltering  steps  of  human  nature  in 
the  direction  of  the  freedom  which  is  its  birthright  ; 
and  they  presage  the  struggle  of  men  to  become  a  free 
people  and  thus  reach  the  plane  of  their  highest  and 
best  aspirations.  In  this  relation  and  in  their  cry  for 
freedom,  it  may  be  truly  said,  the  voice  of  the  people 
is  the  voice  of  God. 

The  influence  of  these  reflections  is  upon  me  as  I 
speak  of  those  who,  after  darkness  and  doubt  and 
struggle,  burst  forth  in  the  bright  light  of  independ- 
ence and  liberty,  and  became  "  one  people  " — free, 
determined,  and  confident — challenging  the  wonder 
of  the  universe,  proclaiming  the  dignity  of  man,  in- 
voking the  aid  and  favor  of  Almighty  God. 

One  hundred  years  have  past.  We  have  announced 
and  approved  to  the  world  our  mission  and  made  our 
destiny  secure. 

I  will  not  tamely  recite  our  achievements.  They  are 
written  on  every  page  of  our  history,  and  the  monu- 
ments of  our  growth  and  advancement  are  all  about  us. 

But  the  value  of  these  things  is  measured  by  the 
fullness  with  which  our  people  have  preserved  their 
patriotism,  their  integrity,  and  their  devotion  to  free 
institutions.  If  engrossed  in  material  advancement  or 
diverted  by  the  turmoil  of  business  activity  they  have 
not  held  fast  to  that  love  of  country  and  that  simple 
faith  in  virtue  and  enlightenment,  which  constituted 
the  hope  and  trust  of  our  fathers,  all  that  we  have 
built  rests  upon  foundations  infirm  and  weak. 


172  THE  HAND. 

Meeting  this  test,  we  point  to  the  scattered  graves 
of  many  thousands  of  our  people  who  have  bravely 
died  in  defense  of  our  national  safety  and  perpetuity, 
mutely  bearing  testimony  to  their  love  of  country,  and 
to  an  invincible  living  host  standing  ready  to  enforce 
our  national  rights  and  protect  our  land.  Our 
churches,  our  schools  and  universities,  and  our  benevo- 
lent institutions,  which  beautify  every  town  and  ham- 
let and  look  out  from  every  hillside,  testify  to  the 
value  our  people  place  upon  religious  teaching,  upon 
advanced  education,  and  upon  deeds  of  charity. 

Surely  such  a  people  can  be  safely  trusted  with 
their  free  government  ;  and  there  need  be  no  fear 
that  they  have  lost  the  qualities  which  fit  them  to  be 
its  custodians.  If  they  should  wander,  they  will  re- 
turn to  duty  in  good  time.  If  they  should  be  misled, 
they  will  discover  the  true  landmarks  none  too  late  for 
safety,  and  if  they  should  even  be  corrupted  they  will 
speedily  be  found  seeking  with  peace-offerings  their 
country's  holy  altar. 


THE   HAND. 

By  Thomas  De  Witt   Talmage,  Clergyman,   Lecturer.     B 
1832,  New  Jersey  ;  lives  in  Brooklyn,  New  York. 

The  anatomist,  gazing  upon  the  conformation  of 
the  human  body,  exclaims,  "  Fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully made  !  "  No  embroidery  so  elaborate,  no  gauze 
so  delicate,  no  color  so  exquisite,  no  mechanism  so 
graceful,  no  handiwork  so  divine.  So  quietly  and 
mysteriously  does  the  human   body  perform   its  func- 


SIR    WALTER'S  HONOR.  1 73 

tions,  that  it  was  not  until  five  thousand  years   after 

the  creation  of  the  race  that  the  circulation  of  the  blood 

was  discovered  ;  and  though  anatomists  of  all  countries 

and  ages  have  been  so  long  exploring  this  castle  of 

life,  they  have  only  begun  to  understand  it. 

******* 

The  hand.  Wondrous  instrument  !  With  it  we 
give  friendly  recognition,  and  grasp  the  sword,  and 
climb  the  rock,  and  write,  and  carve,  and  build.  It 
constructed  the  pyramids  and  reared  the  Parthenon. 
It  made  the  harp,  and  then  struck  out  of  it  all  the 
world's  minstrelsy.  It  reins  in  the  swift  engine  ;  it 
holds  the  steamer  to  its  path  in  the  sea,  it  feels  the 
pulse  of  the  sick  child  with  its  delicate  touch,  and 
makes  the  nations  quake  with  its  stupendous  achieve- 
ments. What  power  brought  down  the  forests,  and 
made  the  marshes  blossom,  and  burdened  the  earth 
with  all  cities  that  thunder  on  with  enterprise  and 
power?  Four  fingers  and  a  thumb.  Mighty  hand! 
In  all  its  bones,  and  muscles,  and  joints,  I  learn  that 
God  is  good. 

SIR  WALTER'S  HONOR. 

By  Margaret  Jdnkin  Prestox,  Poet.     B.  1838,  Virginia. 

In  1618  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  tried  and  convicted  of  a  con- 
spiracy to  place  Arabella  Stuart  on  the  throne  of  England  in  place 
of  King  James  I.  He  was  reprieved  by  the  king,  but  was  after- 
wards beheaded  on  account  of  his  failure  to  point  out  a  promised 
gold  mine  in  South  America.  His  death  was  also  demanded  to 
appease  the  anger  of  Spain,  whose  settlements  in  South  America 
had  been  attacked  by  Raleigh  in  this  expedition. 

With  drooping  sail  and  shattered  mast, 

Sir  Walter's  galleons  lay 


174  SIR    WALTER'S  HONOR. 

Beyond  the  bar,  but  soon  they  cast 
Anchor  in  Plymouth  Bay. 

He  leaped  to  shore  with  bated  breath, 

For  there,  right  full  in  view, 

Stood  his  fair  wife,  Elizabeth, 

And  his  fair  son,  Carew. 
***** 

And  while  he  soothed  her  pale  alarms, 

With  words  all  passion-sweet. 
He  heard  a  troop  of  men-at-arms 

Come  clattering  down  the  street. 

^I*  ^  ^  ^  Sf* 

Sir  Lewis  quickly  drew  his  blade. 

As  from  his  steed  he  sprang. 
And  on  his  kinsman's  shoulder  laid 

Its  weight,  with  sudden  clang. 

He  gave  no  greet ;  but  on  the  ear 

His  words  did  sharply  ring —     , 

"  Sir  Walter,  I  arrest  thee  here. 

By  mandate  of  the  King  !  " 
***** 

"  '  What  hath  he  done  ? '     Why,  treason's  taint 

Hung  o'er  his  head  of  old  ; 

And  he  hath  failed,  thouoh  thrice  he  sailed, 

To  find  the  mine  of  gold. 
***** 

'Twas  midnight  ;  but  in  Plymouth  yet 

Went  on  the  wassail-bout. 
The  early  moon  was  just  a-set. 

And  all  the  stars  were  out. 


SIR    WALTER'S  HONOR.  175 

When  at  Sir  Walter's  prison  bars 

A  muffled  tap  was  heard  ; 

And  as  his  ear  was  bent  to  hear, 

He  caught  the  whispered  word  : — 
***** 

"  Quick,  father  !  catch  thy  doublet  up, 

Without  a  moment's  stay  : 

Before  they  drain  their  latest  cup, 

We  must  be  far  away. 
***** 

My  mother  at  the  water's  brink. 

Waits,  all  her  fears  awake  ; 
And  if  escape  should  fail — I  think — 

I  think  her  heart  will  break  !  " 

Too  much  !     His  bravery  shrank  to  meet. 

The  weight  of  such  a  blow  ; 

And  springing  instant  to  his  feet, 

He  answered — "  I  will  go  !  " 
***** 

Across  the  star-lit  stream  they  steal. 

Without  one  uttered  word. 

The  waters  gurgling  at  the  keel 

Was  all  the  sound  they  heard. 
***** 

"  Put  back  the  boat  !     Nay,  Sweet,  no  moan  ! 

Thy  love  is  so  divine. 
That  thou  wouldst  rather  die  than  own 

A  craven  heart  were  mine  ! 

My  purse,  good  oarsman  !     Pull  thy  best. 
And  we  may  make  the  shore 


176  SIR    WALTER'S  HONOR. 

Before  the  latest  trencher-guest 
Hath  left  the  Warder's  door. 

Hist  !  not  one  other  pleading  word  : 
***** 

But  thou,  my  boy,  Carew, 
Shalt  pledge  thy  vow,  even  here,  and  now, 
That — faithful,  tried  and  true — 

♦ 

Thou'lt  choose,  whatever  stress  may  rise, 
Whilst  thou  hast  life  and  breath 

Before  temptation — sacrifice  ! 
Before  dishonor — death  !  " 

The  boatman  turned,  he  dared  not  bide, 

Nor  say  Sir  Walter  nay  ; 
And  with  his  oars  against  the  tide 

He  labored  up  the  bay. 

And  when  beside  the  water-stair, 

With  grief  no  words  can  tell, 
They  braced  themselves  at  length  to  bear 

The  wrench  of  the  farewell — 

The  boy,  with  proud,  yet  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

Kept  murmuring,  under  breath  : 
— ••  Before  temptation — sacrifice  1 

Before  dishonor — death  i '' 


AMERICAN  BATTLE  FLAGS.  177 


AMERICAN  BATTLE  FLAGS. 

Carl  Schurz,  Statesman,  Journalist,  Director  Hamburg- 
American  Steamship  Co.,  New  York.     B.  1829,  Prussia. 

"  On  December  2,  1872,  Mr.  Sumner  moved  in  the  Senate  that 
the  names  of  the  victories  in  our  civil  war  should  not  be  inscribed 
on  our  regimental  flags."  For  ihis  he  was  censured  by  the  Legis- 
lature of  Massachusetts,  December  18,  1872.  This  resolution  of 
censure  was  rescinded  during  the  last  month  of  his  life. 

From  Europe  Mr.  Sumner  returned  late  in  the  fall 
of  1872,  much  strengthened,  but  far  from  being  well. 
At  the  opening  of  the  session  he  reintroduced  two 
measures,  which,  as  he  thought,  should  complete  the 
record  of  his  political  life.  One  was  his  civil-rights 
bill,  which  had  failed  in  the  last  Congress  ;  and  the 
other,  a  resolution  providing  that  the  names  of  the 
battles  won  over  fellow-citizens  in  the  war  of  the 
Rebellion  should  be  removed  from  the  regimental 
colors  of  the  army,  and  from  the  army  register. 

******* 

This  resolution  called  forth  a  new  storm  against 
him.  It  was  denounced  as  an  insult  to  the  heroic 
soldiers  of  the  Union,  and  a  degradation  of  their  vic- 
tories and  well-earned  laurels. 

Charles  Sumner  insult  the  soldiers  who  had  spilled 
their  blood  in  a  war  for  human  rights  !  Charles 
Sumner  degrade  victories,  and  depreciate  laurels,  won 
for  the  cause  of  universal  freedom  ! — how  strange  an 
imputation  ! 

Let  the  dead  man  have  a  hearing.  This  was  his 
thought  :  No  civilized   nation,  from  the  republics  of 


178  AMERICAN  BATTLE  FLAGS. 

antiquity  down  to  our  days,  ever  thought  it  wise  or 
patriotic  to  preserve  in  conspicuous  and  durable  form 
the  mementos  of  victories  won  over  fellow-citizens  in 
civil  war.  Why  not  ?  Because  every  citizen  should 
feel  himself  with  all  others  as  the  child  of  a  common 
country,  and  not  as  a  defeated  foe.  All  civilized  gov- 
ernments of  our  days  have  instinctively  followed  the 
same  dictate  of  wisdom  and  patriotism. 

The  Irishman,  when  fighting  for  old  England  at 
Waterloo,  was  not  to  behold  on  the  red  cross  floating 
above  him  the  name  of  theBoyne.  The  Scotch  High- 
lander, when  standing  in  the  trenches  of  Sebastopol, 
was  not  by  the  colors  of  his  regiment  to  be  reminded 
of  Culloden.  No  French  soldier  at  Austerlitz  or  Sol- 
ferino  had  to  read  upon  the  tricolor  any  reminiscence 

of  the  Vendee. 

******* 

No  German   regiment   from    Saxony  or    Hanover 

charging  under  the  iron  hail  of   Gravelot,  was  made 

to  remember,  by  words  written  on  a  Prussian  standard, 

that  the  black  eagle  had  conquered  them  at  Konig- 

gratz. 

******* 

Should  the  son  of  South  Carolina,  when  at  some 
future  day  defending  the  Republic  against  some  for- 
eign foe,  be  reminded,  by  an  inscription  on  the  colors 
floating  over  him,  that  under  this  flag  the  gun  was 
fired  that  killed  his  father  at  Gettysburg  ? 

Let  the  battle-flags  of  the  brave  volunteers,  which 
they  brought  home  from  the  war  with  the  glorious 
record   of   their  victories,   be    preserved  intact   as  a 


THE   CHARIOT  RACE.  179 

proud  ornament  of  our  state  houses  and  armories, 
but  iet  the  colors  of  the  army,  under  which  the  sons 
of  all  the  States  are  to  meet  and  mingle  in  common 
patriotism,  speak  of  nothing  but  Union, — not  a  Union 
of  conquerors  and  conquered,  but  a  Union  which  is 
the  mother  of  all,  equally  tender  to  all,  knowing  of 
nothing  but  equality,  peace,  and  love  among  her 
children. 

Do  you  want  conspicuous  mementos  of  your  victo- 
ries ?  They  are  written  upon  the  dusky  brow  of  every 
freeman  who  was  once  a  slave  ;  they  are  written  on 
the  gate-posts  of  a  restored  Union  ;  and  the  most 
glorious  of  all  will  be  written  on  the  faces  of  a  con- 
tented people,  re-united  in  common  national  pride. 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE. 
By  Sophocles,  a   famous  Greek  Dramatist.     B.  495  B.C.  ;  d. 

405  B.C. 

From   the  "  Electra,"  a  tragedy,   translated  by  Sir  Edward 
BULWER  Lytton. 

They  took  their  stand  where  the  appointed  judges 
Had  cast  their  lots  and  ranged  the  rival  cars. 
Rang  out  the  brazen  trump  !     Away  they  bound  ! 
^heer  the  hot  steeds  and  shake  the  slackened  reins ; 
As  with  a  body,  the  large  space  is  filled 
With  the  huge  clangor  of  the  rattling  cars  ; 
High  whirl  aloft  the  dust-clouds  ;  blent  together 
Each  presses  each,  and  the  lash  rings,  and  loud 
Snort  the  wild  steeds,  and  from  their  fiery  breath, 


l8o  THE    CHARIOT  RACE. 

Along  their  manes,  and  down  the  circling  wheels, 
Scatter  the  flaking  foam. 

Orestes  still, 
Aye,  as  he  swept  around  the  perilous  pillar 
Last  in  the  course,  wheeled  in  the  rushing  axle, 
The  left  rein  curbed — that  on  the  outer  hand 
Flung  loose.     So  on  erect  the  chariots  rolled  ! 
Sudden  the  Aenian's  fierce  and  headlong  steeds 
Broke  from  the  bit,  and,  as  the  seventh  time  now 
The  course  was  circled,  on  the  Libyan  car 
Dashed  their  wild  fronts  :  then  order  changed  to  ruin  : 
Car  dashed  on  car  :  the  wide  Crisssean  plain 
Was,  sea-like,  strewn  with  wrecks  :  the  Athenian  saw. 
Slackened  his  speed,  and,  wheeling  round  the  marge, 
Unscathed  and  skillful,  in  the  midmost  space, 
Left  the  wild  tumult  of  that  tossing  storm. 
Behind,  Orestes,  hitherto  the  last, 
Had  kept  back  his  coursers  for  the  close ; 
Now  one  sole  rival  left — on,  on  he  flew, 
And  the  sharp  sound  of  the  impelling  scourge 
Rang  in  the  keen  ears  of  the  flying  steeds. 
He  nears — he  reaches — they  are  side  by  side  ; 
Now  one — now  th'  other — by  a  length  the  victor. 
The  courses  all  are  past — the  wheels  erect — 
All  safe — when,  as  the  hurrying  coursers  round 
The  fatal  pillar  dashed,  the  wretched  boy 
Slackened  the  left  rein.     On  the  column's  edge 
Crashed  the  frail  axle — headlong  from  the  car, 
Caught  and  all  mesh'd  within  the  reins,  he  fell ; 
And,  masterless,  the  mad  steeds  raged  along ! 


THE  REVOLUTIONARY  ALARM.  I  St 

Loud  from  that  mighty  multitude  arose 

A  shriek — a  shout  !     But  yesterday  such  deeds — 

To-day  such  doom  !     Now  whirled  upon  the  earth  ; 

Now  his  limbs  dashed  aloft,  they  dragged  him — those 

Wild  horses — till,  all  gory,  from  the  wheels 

Released — and  no  man,  not  his  nearest  friends, 

Could  in  that  mangled  corpse  have  traced  Orestes. 

They  laid  the  body  on  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  while  we  speak,  the  Phocian  strangers  bear, 

In  a  small,  brazen,  melancholy  urn. 

That  handful  of  cold  ashes,  to  which  all 

The  grandeur  of  the  beautiful  have  shrunk. 

Within  they  bore  him — in  his  father's  land 

To  find  that  heritage — a  tomb. 


THE  REVOLUTIONARY  ALARM. 

By  George  Bancroft,  Historian,  Diplomatist.  B.  1800,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  d.  i8go. 

From  the  "  History  of  the  United  States." 

Darkness  closed  upon  the  country  and  upon  the 
town,  but  it  was  no  night  for  sleep.  Heralds  on  swift 
relays  of  horses  transmitted  the  war  message  from 
hand  to  hand,  till  village  repeated  it  to  village,  the  sea  to 
the  backwoods,  the  plains  to  the  highlands,  and  it  was 
never  suffered  to  droop  till  it  had  been  borne  North 
and  South  and  East  and  West,  throughout  the  land. 
It  spread  over  the  bays  that  receive  the  Saco  and  the 
Penobscot ;  its  loud  reveille  broke  the  rest  of  the 
trappers  of  New  Hampshire,  and,  ringing  like  bugle 
notes  from  peak  to  peak,  overleapt  the  Green  Moun- 


1 82  THE  REVOLUTIONARY  ALARM. 

tains,  swept  onward  to  Montreal,  and  descended  the 
ocean  river  till  the  responses  were  echoed  from  the 
cliffs  at  Quebec.  The  hills  along  the  Hudson  told  to 
one  another  the  tale.  As  the  summons  hurried  to  the 
South,  it  was  one  day  at  New  York,  in  one  more  at 
Philadelphia,  the  next  it  lighted  a  watch-fire  at  Balti- 
more, then  it  waked  an  answer  at  Annapolis.  Cross- 
ing the  Potomac  near  Mt.  Vernon,  it  was  sent  forward, 
without  a  halt,  to  Williamsburg.  It  traversed  the 
Dismal  Swamp  to  Nansemond,  along  the  route  of  the 
first  emigrants  to  North  Carolina.  It  moved  onward 
and  still  onward,  through  boundless  groves  of  ever- 
green, to  Newbern  and  to  Wilmington. 

"  For  God's  sake  forward  it  by  night  and  day," 
wrote  Cornelius  Harnett,  by  the  express  which  sped 
for  Brunswick.  Patriots  of  South  Carolina  caught  up 
its  tones  at  the  border  and  despatched  it  to  Charles- 
ton, and,  through  pines  and  palmettos  and  moss-clad 
live-oaks,  farther  to  the  South,  till  it  resounded  among 
the  New  England  settlements  beyond  the  Savannah. 
The  Blue  Ridge  took  up  the  voice  and  made  it  heard 
from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  valley  of  Virginia. 
The  AUeghanies,  as  they  listened,  opened  their  bar- 
riers that  the  "  loud  call  "  might  pass  through  to  the 
hardy  riflemen  on  the  Holston,  the  Watauga  and  the 
French  Broad.  Ever  renewing  its  strength,  power- 
ful enough  even  to  create  a  commonwealth,  it  breathed 
its  inspiring  word  to  the  first  settlers  of  Kentucky,  so 
that  hunters  who  made  their  halt  in  the  valley  of  the 
Elkhorn  commemorated  the  nineteenth  day  of  April, 
1776,    by    naming    their   encampment   "  Lexington." 


THE   SACREDNESS  OF    WORK.  183 

With  one  impulse  the  Colonies  sprung  to  arms  ;  with 
one  spirit  they  pledged  themselves  to  each  other,  "  to 
be  ready  for  the  extreme  event."  With  one  heart  the 
continent  cried  "  Liberty  or  death  !  " 


THE  SACREDNESS  OF  WORK. 

By  Thomas  Carlyle,  Historian,  Philosopher,  Essayist.  B. 
1795,  Scotland  ;  d.  1881,  England. 

All  true  work  is  sacred  ;  in  all  true  work,  were  it 
but  true  hand-labor,  there  is  something  of  divineness. 
Labor,  wide  as  the  earth,  has  its  summit  in  Heaven. 
Sweat  of  the  brow  ;  and  up  from  that  to  sweat  of  the 
brain,  sweat  of  the  heart ;  which  includes  all  Kepler's 
calculations,  Newton's  meditations,  all  sciences,  all 
spoken  epics,  all  acted  heroism,  martyrdoms — up  to 
that  "  Agony  of  bloody  sweat,"  which  all  men  have 
called  divine  !  Oh  brother,  if  this  is  not  "  worship," 
then,  I  say,  the  more  pity  for  worship  ;  for  this  is  the 
noblest  thing  yet  discovered  under  Gocfs  sky  ! 

Who  art  thou  that  complainest  of  thy  life  of  toil  ? 
Complain  not.  Look  up,  my  wearied  brother  ;  see  thy 
fellow-workmen  there,  in  God's  Eternity  ;  surviving 
there,  they  alone  surviving  ;  sacred  Band  of  the  Im- 
mortals, celestial  Body-guard  of  the  Empire  of  Mind. 
Even  in  the  weak  human  memory  they  survive  so 
long,  as  saints,  as  heroes,  as  gods  ;  they  alone  sur- 
viving; peopling  the  immeasured  solitudes  of  Time  ! 
To  thee  Heaven,  though  severe,  is  not  unkind  ; 
Heaven  is  kind — as  a  noble   mother  ;  as  that  Spartan 


1 84  FLODDEN  FIELD. 

mother,  saying,  while  she  gave  her  son  his  shield, 
"  With  it,  my  son,  or  upon  it  ! "  Thou,  too,  shalt  re- 
turn home,  in  honor  to  thy  far-distant  home,  in  honor  ; 
doubt  it  not — if  in  the  battle  thou  keep  thy  shield. 


FLODDEN   FIELD. 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Novelist,  Poet.  B,  1771,  Scotland ; 
d.  1832. 

The  battle  of  Flodden  Field  was  fought  in  15 13  between  the 
English,  led  by  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  the  Scots  under  King 
James  IV.  After  a  desperate  resistance,  the  Scots  were  defeated 
and  the  King  and  the  flower  of  their  nobility  perished  on  the 
field. 

"  Scottish  history  presents  no  instance  in  which  the  national 
valor  burned  with  a  purer  flame  than  in  this."  "  Scarce  a  Scottish 
family  of  eminence,"  says  Scott,  "  but  had  an  ancestor  killed  at 
Flodden." 

Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne, 

King  James  did  rushing  come. — 
***** 

They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust. 
With  sword-sway,  and  with  lance's  thrust, 

And  such  a  yell  was  there. 
Of  sudden  and  portentou?  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air: 
Oh,  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 


FLODDEN  FIELD.  l8S 

Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 

***** 

Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 

Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flash'd  amain  ; 

Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain ; 

Crests  rose,  and  stoop'd,  and  rose  again 

Wild  and  disorderly. 

*  *  *  *  * 

But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath. 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volley  hail'd, 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assail'd  ; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep, 

That  fought  around  their  King. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though  charging  knight  like  whirlwinds  go 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  wnere  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  theirs  of  dastard  flight ; 
Link'd  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight. 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight. 

As  fearlessly  and  well  ; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  King. 
Then  skillful  Surrey's  sage  commands 


1 86  FLO D DEN  FIELD. 

Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands, 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain-waves  from  wasted  lands, 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foeman  know  ; 
Their  King,  their  Lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow. 
When  streams  are  swol'n  and  south  winds  blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash. 

While  many  a  broken  band, 
Disorder'd,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land  : 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale. 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong : 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field. 
Where  shiver'd  was  fair  Scotland's  spear 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 


DEATH  OF  GARFIELD.  l8j 

DEATH  OF  GARFIELD. 

By  James  Gillespie  Blaine,  Statesman,  Author.  B.  1830, 
Pennsylvania. 

President  Garfield  was  shot  and  mortally  wounded,  July  2,  1881, 
at  Washington,  D.C,  when  just  about  to  leave  the  city  for  an 
extended  pleasure  trip  in  New  England.  Early  in  September  he 
was  removed  to  Long  Branch,  New  Jersey,  where  he  died  Septem- 
ber 19,  18S1. 

The  following  is  part  of  a  memorial  oration  delivered  in  the  halls 
of  Congress,  February  26,  1882. 

Surely,  if  happiness  can  ever  come  from  the  honors 
or  triumphs  of  this  world,  on  that  quiet  July  morning 
James  A.  Garfield  may  well  have  been  a  happy  man. 
No  foreboding  of  evil  haunted  him  ;  no  slightest  pre- 
monition of  danger  clouded  his  sky.  His  terrible 
fate  was  upon  him  in  an  instant.  One  moment  he 
stood  erect,  strong,  confident  in  the  years  stretching 
peacefully  before  him  ;  the  next  he  lay  wounded, 
bleeding,  helpless,  doomed  to  weary  weeks  of  torture, 
to  silence,  and  the  grave. 

Great  in  life,  he  was  surpassingly  great  in  death. 
For  no  cause,  in  the  very  frenzy  of  wantonness  and 
wickedness,  by  the  red  hand  of  murder,  he  was  thrust 
from  the  full  tide  of  this  world's  interests,  from  its 
hopes,  its  aspirations,  its  victories,  into  the  visible 
presence  of  death,  and  he  did  not  quail.  Not  alone 
for  the  one  short  moment  in  which  stunned  and 
dazed  he  could  give  up  life,  hardly  aware  of  its 
relinquishment,  but  through  days  of  deadly  languor, 
through  weeks  of  agony  that  was  not  less  agony 
because  silently  borne,  with  clear  sight  and  calm 
courage  he  looked  into  his  open  grave.     What  blight 


1 88  DEATH  OF  GARFIELD. 

and  ruin  met  his  anguished  eyes  whose  lips  may  tell . 
What  brilliant  broken  plans  !  What  baffled  high  am- 
bitions !  What  sundering  of  strong,  warm,  manhood's 
friendships  !  What  bitter  rending  of  sweet  house- 
hold ties  !  Behind  him,  a  proud  expectant  nation  ;  a 
great  host  of  sustaining  friends ;  a  cherished  and 
happy  mother,  wearing  the  full  rich  honors  of  her 
early  toil  and  tears  ;  the  wife  of  his  youth,  whose 
whole  life  lay  in  his ;  the  little  boys  not  yet  emerged 
from  childhood's  days  of  frolic  ;  the  fair  young 
daughter  ;  the  sturdy  sons  just  springing  into  closest 
companionship,  claiming  every  day  and  every  day 
rewarding  a  father's  love  and  care  ;  and  in  his  heart 
the  eager  rejoicing  power  to  meet  all  demands. 
Before  him,  desolation  and  darkness,  and  his  soul 
was  not  shaken.  His  countrymen  were  thrilled  with 
instant,  profound  and  universal  sympathy.  Though 
masterful  in  his  mortal  weakness,  enshrined  in  the 
prayers  of  a  world,  all  the  love  and  all  the  sympathy 
could  not  share  with  him  in  his  suffering.  He  trod 
the  winepress  alone.  With  unfaltering  front  he  faced 
death.  With  unfailing  tenderness  he  took  leave  of 
life.  Above  the  demoniac  hiss  of  the  assassin's  bullet 
he  heard  the  voice  of  God.  With  simple  resignation 
he  bowed  to  the  Divine  decree. 

As  the  end  d/ew  near,  his  early  craving  for  the  sea 
returned.  The  stately  mansion  of  power  had  been  to 
him  the  wearisome  hospital  of  pain,  and  he  begged  to 
be  taken  from  its  prison  walls,  from  its  oppressive 
stifling  air,  from  its  homelessness  and  its  hopelessness. 
Gently,  silently,  the  love  of  a  great  people  bore  the  pale 


LORn  CHATHAM  AGAINST  AMERICAN  WAR.    189 

sufferer  to  the  longed-for  healing  of  the  sea,  to  live,  or 
die,  as  God  should  will,  within  sight  of  its  heaving  bil- 
lows, within  sound  of  its  manifold  voices Let 

us  believe  that  in  the  silence  of  the  receding  world  he 
heard  the  great  waves  breaking  on  a  further  shore, 
and  felt  already  upon  his  wasted  brow  the  breath  of 
the  eternal  morning. 


LORD  CHATHAM  AGAINST  THE  AMERICAN 

WAR. 

By  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham.  Statesman,  Orator.  B. 
1708.  England  ;  d.  1778. 

"  Pitt  entered  Parliament  at  twenty-seven,  and  was  the  most  elo- 
quent and  powerful  opponent  of  the  measures  for  subjugating 
America,  from  1775  until  1778."  He  was  promoted  to  the  House 
of  Lords,  with  the  title  Earl  of  Chatham,  in  1766. 

I  CANNOT,  my  lords,  I  will  not  join  in  congratula- 
tion on  misfortune  and  disgrace.  This,  my  lords,  is 
a  perilous  and  tremendous  moment.  It  is  not  a  time 
for  adulation  ;  the  smoothness  of  flattery  cannot  save 
us  in  this  rugged  and  awful  crisis.  It  is  now  neces- 
sary to  instruct  the  throne  in  the  language  of  truth. 
We  must,  if  possible,  dispel  the  delusion  and  darkness 
which  envelope  it ;  and  display,  in  its  full  danger  and 
genuine  colors,  the  ruin  which  is  brought  to  our  doors. 
Can  ministers  still  presume  to  expect  support  in  their 
infatuation  ?  Can  Parliament  be  so  dead  to  its  dignity 
and  duty  as  to  give  their  support  to  measures  thus 
obtruded    and    forced    upon    them?     Measures,    my 


19°  LORD  CHATHAM  AGAINST  AMERICAN. WAR. 

lords,  which  have  reduced  this  late  flourishing  empire 
to  scorn  and  contempt ! 

S|C  !(!  tST  •!•  T*  V  •!• 

The  people,  whom  we  at  first  despised  as  rebels, 
but  whom  we  now  acknowledge  as  enemies,  are 
abetted  against  us,  supplied  with  every  military  store, 
have  their  interests  consulted,  and  their  embassadors 
entertained  by  our  inveterate  enemy — and  ministers 
do  not  and  dare  not  interpose  with  dignity  or  effect. 

The  desperate  state  of  our  army  abroad  is  in  part 
known.  No  man  more  highly  esteems  and  honors  the 
British  troops  than  I  do  ;  I  know  their  virtues  and 
their  valor  ;  I  know  they  can  achieve  anything  but 
impossibilities ;  and  I  know  that  the  conquest  of 
British  America  is  an  impossibility.  You  cannot,  my 
lords,  you  cannot  conquer  America 

You  may  swell  every  expense,  and  accumulate  every 
assistance,  and  extend  your  traffic  to  the  shambles  of 
every  German  despot ;  your  attempts  will  be  forever 
vain  and  impotent — doubly  so,  indeed,  from  this  mer- 
cenary aid  on  which  you  rely ;  for  it  irritates  to  an 
incurable  resentment  the  minds  of  your  adversaries  to 
overrun  them  with  the  mercenary  sons  of  rapine  and 
plunder,  devoting  them  and  their  possessions  to  the 
rapacity  of  hireling  cruelty.  If  I  were  an  American, 
as  I  am  an  Englishman,  while  a  foreign  troop  remained 
in  my  country  I  never  would  lay  down  my  arms ;  noy  . 
never,  never,  never ! 


RIENZI    TO    THE  ROMANS.  IQI 


RIENZI  TO  THE  ROxMANS. 

By  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  Author.  B.  1786,  England  ; 
i.  1855. 

The  following  is  taken  from  the  play  of  "  Rienzi,"  (Cola  di 
Rienzi.  a  Roman  tribune,  was  born  at  Rome  in  1313,  and  died  in 
1354,)  and  is  founded  upon  a  speech  made  by  Rienzi  in  1347, 
when  he  proposed,  after  the  assassination  of  his  brother  by  a  Ro- 
ma-n  noble,  a  set  of  laws  for  the  better  government  and  protec- 
tion of  the  common  people  at  Rome. 

1  COME  not  here  to  talk.     You  know  too  well 
The  story  of  our  thrallclom.     We  are  slaves  ! 
The  bright  sun  rises  to  his  course,  and  lights 
A  race  of  slaves  !     He  sets,  and  his  last  beams 
Fall  on  a  slave  ;  not  such  as,  swept  along 
By  the  full  tide  of  power,  the  conqueror  led 
To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame, — 
But  base,  ignoble  slaves  ;  slaves  to  a  horde 
Of  petty  tyrants,  feudal  despots,  lords, 
Rich  in  some  dozen  paltry  villages  ; 
Strong  in  some  hundred  spearmen  ;  only  great 
In  that  strange  spell, — a  name  ! 

Each  hour  dark  fraud, 
Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder. 
Cries  out  against  them.     But  this  very  day. 
An  honest  man,  my  neighbor, — there  he  stands, — 
Was  struck — struck  like  a  dog,  by  one  who  wore 
The  badge  of  Ursini !  because,  forsooth, 
i  ii:  tossed  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air. 
Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts. 
At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian  !     Be  we  men, 


192  RIENZI   TO    THE  ROMANS. 

And  suffer  such  dishonor  ?     Men,  and  wash  not 

The  stain  away  in  blood  ?     Such  shames  are  common. 

I  have  known  deeper  wrongs.     I,  that  speak  to  ye, 

I  had  a  brother  once — a  gracious  boy, 

Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope. 

Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy  ;  there  was  the  look 

Of  heaven  upon  his  face,  which  limners  give 

To  the  beloved  disciple. 

How  I  loved 
That  gracious  boy  !     Younger  by  fifteen  years, 
Brother  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side, 
A  summer  bloom  on  his  fair  cheek  ;  a  smile 
Parting  his  innocent  lips.     In  one  short  hour 
That  pretty,  harmless  boy  was  slain  !     I  saw 
The  corse,  the  mangled  corse,  and  then  I  cried 
For  vengeance  !  Rouse,  ye  Romans  !   Rouse,  ye  slaves: 

4c  «  4:  *  4:  « 

Yet  this  is  Rome 
That  sat  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 
Of  beauty  ruled  the  world  !     And  we  are  Romans. 
Why,  in  that  elder  day,  to  be  a  Roman 
Was  greater  than  a  king  ! 

And  once  again, — 
Hear  me,  ye  walls  that  echoed  to  the  tread 
Of  either  Brutus  !     Once  again,  I  swear 
The  eternal  city  shall  be  free. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES.  193 

THE  DEATH  OF    MOSES. 

By  John  Ruskin,  Art  Critic,  Author.     B.  1819,  London. 

Extract  from  "  Modern  Painters."  During  the  seventeen  years 
elapsing  between  the  inception  in  1842  and  the  completion  of  the 
work  in  i860,  Ruskin  was  industriously  studying  art  at  home,  and 
for  a  long  period  in  Venice. 

The  death  of  Moses  himself  is  more  easily  to  be 
conceived,  and  had  in  it  touching  circumstances,  as 
far  as  regards  the  influence  of  the  external  scene. 
For  forty  years  Moses  had  not  been  alone.  The  care 
and  burden  of  all  the  people,  the  weight  of  their  woe, 
and  guilt,  and  death,  had  been  upon  him  continually. 
The  multitude  had  been  laid  upon  him  as  if  he  had 
conceived  them  ;  their  tears  had  been  his  meat  night 
and  day,  until  he  had  felt  as  if  God  had  withdrawn 
his  favor  from  him,  and  he  had  prayed  that  he  might 
be  slain,  and  not  see  his  wretchedness.  And  now,  at 
last,  the  command  came,  "Get  thee  up  into  the  moun- 
tain." The  weary  hands  that  had  been  so  long  stayed 
up  against  the  enemies  of  Israel,  might  lean  again 
upon  the  shepherd's  staff,  and  fold  themselves  for  the 
shepherd's  prayer — for  the  shepherd's  slumber.  Not 
strange  to  his  feet,  though  forty  years  unknown,  the 
roughness  of  the  bare  mountain-path,  as  he  climbed 
from  ledge  to  ledge  of  Abarim  ;  not  strange  to  his 
aged  eyes  the  scattered  clusters  of  the  mountain  herb- 
age, and  the  broken  shadows  of  the  cliffs,  indented  far 
across  the  silence  of  uninhabited  ravines.  It  was  not 
to  imbitter  the  last  hours  of  his  life  that  God  restored 
to  him,  for  a  day,  the  beloved  solitudes  he  had  lost ; 
and  breathed  the  peace  of  the  perpetual  hills  around 


194  THE  NOBLEST  PUBLIC    VIRTUE. 

him,  and  cast  the  world  in  which  he  had  labored  and 
sinned  far  beneath  his  feet,  in  that  mist  of  dying 
blue  ; — all  sin,  all  wandering  soon  to  be  forgotten  for 

ever  ;  the  Dead    Sea laid  waveless   beneath 

him  ;  and  beyond  it,  the  fair  hills  of  Judah,  and  the 
soft  plains  and  banks  of  Jordan,  purple  in  the  evening 
light  as  the  blood  of  redemption,  and  fading  in  their 
distant  fullness  into  mysteries  of  promise  and  of  love. 
There,  with  his  unbated  strength,  his  undimmed 
glance,  lying  down  upon  the  utmost  rocks,  with  angels 
waiting  near  to  contend  for  the  spoils  of  his  spirit, 
he  put  off  his  earthly  armor. 


THE  NOBLEST  PUBLIC  VIRTUE. 

By  Henry  Clay,  Statesman.  B.  1777,  Virginia;  removed  to 
Kentucky  in  1797  ;  d.  1852. 

One  of  the  ' "  Great  Triumvirate  "  of  American  orators.  Webster 
and  Calhoun  were  the  others. 

There  is  a  sort  of  courage,  which,  I  frankly  con- 
fess it,  I  do  not  possess, — a  boldness  to  which  I  dare 
not  aspire,  a  valor  which  I  cannot  covet.  I  cannot 
lay  myself  down  in  the  way  of  the  welfare  and  happi- 
ness of  my  country.  That,  I  cannot, — I  have  not  the 
courage  to  do.  I  cannot  interpose  the  power  with 
which  I  maybe  invested — a  power  conferred,  not  for 
my  personal  benefit,  nor  for  my  aggrandizement,  but 
for  my  country's  good — to  check  her  onward  march  to 
greatness  and  glory.  I  have  n(5t  courage  enough.  I 
am  too  cowardly  for  that.  I  would  not,  I  dare  not, 
in  the  exercise  of  such  a  threat,  lie  down,  and  place 


THE   NOBLEST  PUBLIC    VLRTUE.  I95 

my  body  across  the  path  that  leads  my  country  to 
prosperity  and  happhiess.  This  is  a  sort  of  courage 
widely  different  from  that  which  a  man  may  display  in 
his  private  conduct  and  personal  relations.  Personal 
or  private  courage  is  totally  distinct  from  that  higher 
and  nobler  courage  which  prompts  the  patriot  to  offer 
himself  a  voluntary  sacrifice  to  his  country's  good. 

Apprehensions  of  the  imputation  of  the  want  of 
firmness  sometimes  impel  us  to  perform  rash  and 
inconsiderate  acts.  It  is  the  greatest  courage  to  be 
able  to  bear  the  imputation  of  the  zvaiit  of  courage. 
But  pride,  vanity,  egotism,  so  unamiable  and  offensive 
in  private  life,  are  vices  which  partake  of  the  char- 
acter of  crimes,  in  the  conduct  of  public  affairs.  The 
unfortunate  victim  of  these  passions  cannot  see  beyond 
the  little,  petty,  contemptible  circle  of  his  own  per- 
sonal interests.  All  his  thoughts  are  withdrawn  from 
his  country,  and  concentrated  on  his  consistency,  his 
firmness,  himself  !  The  high,  the  exalted,  the  sublime 
emotions  of  a  patriotism  which,  soaring  toward  Heaven, 
rises  far  above  all  mean,  low,  or  selfish  things,  and  is 
absorbed  by  one  soul-transporting  thought  of  the  good 
and  the  glory  of  one's  country,  are  never  felt  in  his 
impenetrable  bosom. 

That  patriotism  which,  catching  its  inspirations 
from  the  immortal  God,  and,  leaving  at  an  immeas- 
urable distance  below  all  lesser,  groveling,  personal 
interests  and  feelings,  animates  and  prompts  to  deeds 
of  self-sacrifice,  of  valor,  of  devotion,  and  of  death 
itself, — that  is  public  virtue  ;  that  is  the  noblest,  the 
sublimest  of  all  public  virtues  ! 


I9<5  THE  POND. 

THE  POND. 

By  Doctor  John  Byrom,  Poet.     B.  1691,  England  ;  d.  1763 

Once  on  a  time,  a  certain  man  was  found, 
That  had  a  pond  of  water  in  his  ground  ; 
A  fine  large  pond  of  water  fresh  and  clear, 
Enough  to  serve  his  turn  for  many  a  year. 
Yet  so  it  was — a  strange,  unhappy  dread 
Of  wanting  water  seized  the  fellow's  head  : 
When  he  was  dry,  he  was  afraid  to  drink 
Too  much  at  once,  for  fear  his  pond  should  sink. 

«  4t  %  *  «  «  4c 

Upon  his  pond  continually  intent, 

In  cares  and  pains  his  anxious  life  he  spent ; 

Consuming  all  his  time  and  strength  away, 

To  make  his  pond  rise  higher  every  day  : 

He  worked  and  slaved,  and — Oh  !  Iiow  slow  it  fills  ! 

Poured  in  by  pailfuls,  and  took  out  by  gills. 

******* 

If  some  poor  neighbor  craved  to  slake  his  thirst. 

What  !  rob  my  pond  !     I'll  see  the  rogue   hanged 

first. 

A  burning  shame,  these  vermin  of  the  poor 

Should  creep  unpunished  thus  about  my  door  ! 
******* 

Then  all  the  birds  that  fly  along  the  air 

Light  at  my  pond,  and  come  in  for  a  share  ; 

Item,  at  every  puff  of  wind  that  blows. 

Away  at  once  the  surface  of  it  goes  ; 

The  rest  in  exhalation  to  the  sun — 

One  month's  fair  weather — and  I  am  undone." 


THE    VICTORIES  OF  PEACE.  197 

This  life  he  led  for  many  a  year  together  , 
Grew  old  and  gray  in  watching  of  the  weather  \ 
Meagre  as  Death  itself,  till  this  same  Death 
Stopped,  as  the  saying  is,  his  vital  breath  ; 
For  as  the  old  man  was  carrying  to  his  field 
A  heavier  burden  than  he  well  could  wield, 
He  missed  his  footing,  or  somehow  he  fumbled 
In  tumbling  of  it  in — but  in  he  tumbled  ; 
Mighty  desirous  to  get  out  again. 
He  screamed  and  scrambled,  but  'twas  ;.ll  in  vain  ; 
The  place  was  grown  so  very  deep  and  wide, 
Nor  bottom  of  it  could  he  feel,  nor  side  ; 
And  so — i'  the  middle  of  his  pond — he  died. 

******* 

The  choicest  ills,  the  greatest  torments,  sure 
Are  those,  which  numbers  labor  to  endure. 
"  What  !  for  a  pond  ?  "     Why,  call  it  an  estate  : 
You  change  the  name,  but  realize  the  fate. 


THE  VICTORIES  OF  PEACE. 

By  Charles  Sumner,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1811,  Massachu.. 
setts  ;  d.  1874,  Washington,  D.  C. 

This  brief  extract  is  selected  from  the  oration,  "The  True 
Grandeur  of  Nations,"  delivered  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1845,  in 
Tremont  Temple,  Boston. 

The  true  greatness  of  a  nation  cannot  be  in  tri- 
umphs of  the  intellect  alone.  Literature  and  art  may 
widen  the  sphere  of  its  influence  ;  they  may  adorn  it ; 
but  they  are  in  their  nature  but  accessories.  The 
true  grandeur  of  humanity  is   in  its   moral  elevation, 


198  THE   VICTORIES  OF  PEACE. 

sustained,  enlightened,  and  decorated  by  the  intellect 

of  man. 

****** 

But  war  crushes  with  bloody  heel  all  justice,  all 
happiness,  all  that  is  godlike  in  man.  True,  it  can- 
not be  disguised  that  there  are  passages  in  its  dreary 
annals  cheered  by  deeds  of  generosity  and  sacrifice. 
But  the  virtues  which  shed  their  charm  over  its  hor- 
rors are  all  borrowed  of  Peace ;  they  are  emanations 
of  the  spirit  of  love,  which  is  so  strong  in  the  heart  of 
man  that  it  survives  the  rudest  assaults.  The  flowers 
of  gentleness,  of  kindliness,  of  fidelity,  of  humanity, 
which  flourish  in  unregard::d  luxuriance  in  the  rich 
meadows  of  Peace,  receive  unwonted  admiration 
when  we  discern  them  in  war,  —  like  violets  shedding 
their  perfume  on  the  perilous  edge  of  the  precipice, 
beyond  the  smiling  borders  of  civilization.  God  be 
praised  for  all  the  examples  of  magnanimous  virtue 
which  he  has  vouchsafed  to  mankind  1  .  .  .  .  God 
be  praised  that  Sidney,  on  the  field  of  battle,  gave 
with  dying  hand  the  cup  of  cold  water  to  the  dying 
soldier !  That  single  act  of  self-forgetful  sacrifice 
has  consecrated  the  fenny  field  of  Zutphen  far,  far 
beyond  its  battle ;  it  has  consecrated  thy  name,  gal- 
lant Sidney,  beyond  any  feat  of  thy  sword,  beyond 
any  triumph  of  thy  pen  !  But  there  are  hands  out- 
stretched elsewhere  than  on  fields  of  blood  for  so 
little  as  a  cup  of  cold  water.  The  world  is  full  of 
opportunrties  for  deeds  of  kindness.  Let  me  not  be 
told,  then,  of  the  virtues  of  war 

As  the  hunter  traces  the  wild  beast,  when  pursued 


IRISH  ALIENS  AND  ENGLISH  VICTORIES.    199 

to  his  lair  by  the  drops  of  blood  on  the  earth,  so  we 
follow  man,  faint,  weary,  staggering  with  wounds, 
through  the  Black  Forest  of  the  past,  which  he  has 
reddened  with  his  gore.  Oh,  let  it  not  be  in  the 
future  ages  as  in  those  which  we  now  contemplate. 
Let  the  grandeur  of  man  be  discerned  in  the  blessings 
which  he  has  secured,  in  the  good  he  has  accom- 
plished, in  the  triumphs  of  benevolence  and  justice, 
in  the  establishment  of  perpetual  peace  ! 


IRISH    ALIENS    AND    ENGLISH  VICTORIES. 

By  Richard  Lalor  Sheil,  Orator,  Patriot.     B.  1794,  Ireland  ; 
d.  1851,  Italy. 

There  is  one  man,  of  great  abilities, — not  a  mem- 
ber of  this  House,  but  whose  talents  and  whose  bold- 
ness have  placed  him  in  the  topmost  place  in  his 
party, — who,  disdaining  all  imposture,  and  thinking  it 
the  best  course  to  appeal  directly  to  the  religious  and 
national  antipathies  of  the  people  of  this  country, 
distinctly  and  audaciously  tells  the  Irish  people  that 
they  are  not  entitled  to  the  same  privileges  as  English- 
men ;  and  pronounces  them  to  be  aliens  in  race,  to  be 
aliens  in  country,  to  be  aliens  in  religion!  Aliens! 
was  Arthur,  Duke  of  Wellington,  in  the  House  of 
Lords, — and  did  he  not  start  up  and  exclaim,  "  Hold  ! 
I  have  seen  the  aliens  do  their  duty  !  "  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that,  when  he  heard  his  Roman  Catho- 
lic countrymen  (for  we  are  his  countrymen)  desig- 
nated   by    a  phrase   as    offensive    as    the   abundant 


200  IRISH  ALIENS  AND  ENGLISH  VICTORIES. 

vocabulary  of  his  eloquent  confederate  could  supply, — ■ 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  he  ought  to  have  recol- 
lected the  many  fields  of  fight  in  which  we  have  been 
contributors  to  his  renown.  "  The  battles,  sieges, 
fortunes,  that  he  has  passed,"  ought  to  have  come 
back  upon  him.  He  ought  to  have  remembered  that, 
f:.om  the  earliest  achievement  in  which  he  displayed 
tnat  military  genius  which  has  placed  him  foremost  in 
the  annals  of  modern  warfare,  down  to  that  last  and 
surpassing  combat  which  has  made  his  name  imperish- 
ble, — from  Assaye  to  Waterloo, — the  Irish  soldiers 
with  whom  your  armies  are  filled,  were  the  insepara- 
ble auxiliaries  to  the  glory  with  which  his  unparalleled 
successes  have  been  crowned.  Whose  were  the  arms 
that  drove  your  bayonets  at  Vimiera  through  the 
phalanxes  that  never  reeled  in  the  shock  of  war  be- 
fore ?  What  desperate  valor  climbed  the  steeps  and 
filled  the  moats  at  Badajos  ?  Tell  me, — for  you  were 
there — I  appeal  to  the  gallant  soldier  before  me.  Sir 
Henry  Hardinge,  from  whose  opinions  I  differ,  but 
who  bears,  1  know,  a  generous  heart  in  an  intrepid 
breast  ; — tell  me, — for  you  must  needs  remember, — 
on  that  day  when  the  destinies  of  mankind  were  trem- 
bling in  the  balance,  while  death  fell  in  showers,  when 
the  artillery  of  France  was  leveled  with  a  precision  of 
the  most  deadly  science, — when  her  legions,  incited 
by  the  voice  and  inspired  by  the  example  of  their 
mighty  leader,  rushed  again  and  again  to  the  onset, — 
tell  me  if,  for  an  instant,  when  to  hesitate  for  an  in- 
stant was  to  be  lost,  the  "  aliens  "  blenched  ?  And 
when,  at  length,  the  moment  for  the  last  and  decisive 


WARREN'S  ADDRESS.  201 

movement  had  arrived,  and  the  valor  which  had  so 
long  been  wisely  checked  was,  at  last,  let  loose, — 
when,  with  words  familiar  but  immortal,  the  great 
captain  commanded  the  great  assault, — tell  me  if 
Catholic  Ireland  wiih  less  heroic  valor  than  the  na- 
tives of  this  your  own  glorious  country  precipitated 
herself  upon  the  foe  ?  The  blood  of  England,  Scot- 
land, and  of  Ireland,  flowed  in  the  same  stream,  and 
drenched  the  same  field.  When  the  chill  morning 
dawned,  their  dead  lay  cold  and  stark  together  ; — in 
the  same  deep  pit  their  bodies  were  deposited  ;  the 
green  corn  of  spring  is  now  breaking  from  their  com- 
mingled dust  ;  the  dew  falls  from  heaven  upon  their 
union  in  the  grave.  Partakers  in  every  peril,  in  the 
glory  shall  we  not  be  permitted  to  participate  ;  and 
shall  we  be  told,  as  a  requital,  that  we  are  estranged 
from  the  noble  country  for  whose  salvation  our  life- 
blood  was  poured  out  ? 


WARREN'S  ADDRESS. 

By  John  Pierpont,  Poet,  Clergyman.     B.  1785,  Connecticut ; 
d.  1866. 

Stand  !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-pea!  ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristhng  steel  ! 

Ask  it, — ye  who  will. 


202  THE  FIRST    VIEW  OF  MEXICO, 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  ! — they're  afire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it  !  From  the  vale 
On  they  come  ! — and  will  ye  quail? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 
Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must ; 
But,  O,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be 'Consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed. 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell. 


WHEN   DE   CO'N    PONE'S    HOT. 
By  Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar,  Poet.     B.  1872. 

Dey  is  times  in  life  when  Nature 

Seems  to  slip  a  cog  an'  go, 
Jes  a-rattlin'  down  creation, 

Lak  an  ocean's  overflow; 
When  de  worl'  jes  stahts  a-spinnin* 

Lak  a  picaninny's  top. 
An'  yo'  cup  o'  joy  is  brimmin' 

Twell  it  seems  about  to  slop. 
An'  you  feel  jes'  lak  a  racah 

Dat  is  trainin'  fu'  to  trot  — 


WHEN  DE    CO'iV  PONE'   HOT.  203 

When  yo'  mammy  ses  de  blessin' 
An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  you  set  down  at  de  table, 

Kin'  o'  weary  lak  an'  sad, 
An'  you'se  jes'  a  little  tiahed, 

An'  purhaps  a  little  mad, 
How  yo'  gloom  tu'ns  into  gladness, 

How  yo'  joy  drives  out  de  doubt, 
When  de  oven  do'  is  opened 

An'  de  smell  comes  po'in'  out. 
Why,  de  'lectric  light  o'  Heaven 

Seems  to  settle  on  de  spot  — 
When  yo'  mammy  ses  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  de  cabbage  pot  is  steamin' 

An'  de  bacon's  good  an'  fat, 
When  de  chittlin's  is  a  sputter'n' 

So's  to  show  5'ou  whah  dey's  at, 
Take  away  yo's  sody  biscuit. 

Take  away  yo'  cake  an'  pie, 
Fu'  de  glory  time  is  comin', 

An'  it's  'proaching  very  nigh  ; 
An'  you  want  to  jump  an'  hollah. 

Do'  you  know  you'd  bettah  not  — 
When  yo'  mammy  ses  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

I  have  heerd  o'  lots  o'  sermons. 
An'  I've  heerd  o'  lots  o'  prayers. 

An'  I've  listened  to  some  singin' 
Dat  has  tuk  me  up  de  stairs 

Of  de  Glory-Lan'  an'  set  me 
Jes'  below  de  Mahster's  th'one, 


2  04  THE   ROYALTY  OF   VIRTUE. 

An'  have  lef  my  hawt  a-singin' 

In  a  happy  aftah  tone, 
But  dem  wu'ds  so  sweetly  murmured 

Seem  to  tech  de  softes'  spot, 
When  my  mammy  ses  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 


THE  ROYALTY  OF  VIRTUE. 

By  Henry  Codman  Potter,  Clergyman,  Author.  B.  1835, 
New  York. 

From  an  address  delivered  in  St.  Paul's  Church,  New  York  City, 
April  30,  i88g,  at  special  services  commemorative  of  Washings- 
ton's  attendance  upon  Divine  Service  in  that  church  one  hundred 
years  before,  on  the  morning  of  his  inauguration  as  first  President 
of  the  United  States. 

A  GENERATION  which  vauuts  its  descent  from  the 
founders  of  the  Republic  seems  largely  to  be  in  danger 
of  forgetting  their  pre-eminent  distinction.  They 
were  few  in  numbers,  they  were  poor  in  worldly  posses- 
sions— the  sum  of  the  fortune  of  the  richest  of  them 
would  afford  a  fine  theme  for  the  scorn  of  the  pluto- 
crat of  to-day  ;  but  they  had  an  invincible  confidence 
in  the  truth  of  those  principles  in  which  the  founda- 
tions of  the  Republic  had  been  laid,  and  they  had  an 
unselfish  purpose  to  maintain  them.  There  is  an 
element  of  infinite  sadness  in  the  effort  which  we  are 
making  to-day.  Ransacking  the  annals  of  our  fathers, 
as  we  have  been  doing  for  the  last  few  months,  a  busy 
and  well  meaning  assiduity  would  fain  reproduce  the 
scene,  the  scenery,  the  situation,  of  a  hundred  years 
ago  !     Vain  and  impotent  endeavor  I 

It  is  as  though  out  of  the  lineaments  of  living  men 


THE  ROYALTY  OF    VIRTUE.  205 

we  would  fain  reproduce  another  Washington.  We 
may  disinter  the  vanished  draperies,  we  may  revive 
the  stately  minuet,  we  may  rehabilitate  the  old  scenes, 
but  the  march  of  a  century  cannot  be  halted  or  re- 
versed, and  the  enormous  change  in  the  situation  can 
neither  be  disguised  nor  ignored. 

As  we  turn  the  pages  backward,  and  come  upon 
the  story  of  that  30th  of  April  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1789,  there  is  a  certain  stateliness  in  the  air,  a  certain 
ceremoniousness  in  the  manners,  which  we  have  ban- 
ished long  ago. 

We  have  exchanged  the  Washingtonian  dignity  for 
the  Jeffersonian  simplicity,  which  was,  in  truth,  only 
another  name  for  the  Jacksonian  vulgarity.  And 
what  have  we  gotten  in  exchange  for  it  ?  In  the  elder 
States  and  dynasties  they  had  the  trappings  of  royalty, 
and  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  the  King's  person  to 
fill  men's  hearts  with  loyalty.  Well,  we  have  dis- 
pensed with  the  old  titular  dignities.  Let  us  take  care 
that  we  do  not  part  with  that  tremendous  force  for 
which  they  stood  !  If  there  be  not  titular  royalty, 
all  the  more  need  is  there  for  personal  royalty.  If 
there  be  no  nobility  of  descent,  all  the  more  indis- 
pensable is  it  that  there  should  be  nobility  of  ascent — 
a  character  in  them  that  bear  rule,  so  fine  and  high 
and  pure,  that  as  men  come  within  the  circle  of  its 
influence,  they  involuntarily  pay  homage  to  that  which 
is  the  one  pre-eminent  distinction,  the  Royalty  of 
Virtue. 

And  it  was  that,  men  and  brethren,  which,  as  we 
turn  to-day  and   look  at  him  who,  as  on  this  morning 


2o6  MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

just  an  hundred  years  ago,  became  the  servant  of  the 
Republic  in  becoming  the  Chief  Ruler  of  its  people, 
we  must  needs  own,  conferred  upon  him  his  divine  right 
to  rule.  The  traits  which  in  him  shone  pre-eminent 
as  our  own  Irving  has  described  them,  were  firmness, 
sagacity,  an  immovable  justice,  a  courage  that  never 
faltered,  and  most  of  all  a  truth  that  disdained  all 
artifice.  These  are  characteristics  in  her  leaders  of 
which  the  nation  was  never  in  more  dire  need  than 
now. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

By  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  Poet.  B.  1790,  Connecticut  ;  d. 
1867. 

Marco  Bozzaris,  a  Greek  patriot,  was  born  1788,  at  Suli.  He 
fell  in  an  attack  upon  the  van  of  a  Turkish  army,  4000  strong, 
while  leading  his  devoted  Suliotes,  350  in  number,  August,  1823. 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 
The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 
Should  tremble  at  his  power. 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court  he  bore 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 

Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring ; 

Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king  : 

As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 
As  Eden's  garden-bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 
Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 


MARCO  BOZZARIS.  20} 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood, 

On  old  Plataea's  day  : 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air, 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 

With  arms  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last : 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

"To  arms!  they  come  !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek!' 
He  woke — to  die  mid  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout  and  groan,  and  saber-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud  ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike  ! — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike  ! — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike  ! — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  ; 

God — and  your  native  land  !  " 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well  ; 

They  piled  the  ground  with  Moslem  slain  ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell. 

Bleeding  at  every  vein.  ' 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud — "  hurrah," 

And  the  red  field  was  won  : 


2o8  THE  FUTURE   OF  AMERICA. 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 
Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word. 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave. 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's- 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


THE  FUTURE  OF  AMERICA. 

By  Daniel  Webster,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1782, 
New  Hampshire;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

Extract  from  an  oration  delivered  at  Plymouth,  Mass.,  Dec.  22, 
1820,  on  the  two-hundredth  anniversary  of  the  landing  of  the 
Pilgrims. 

The  hours  of  this  day  are  rapidly  flying,  and  this 
occasion  will  soon  be  passed.  Neither  we  nor  our 
children  can  expect  to  behold  its  return.  They  are  in 
the  distant  regions  of  futurity,  they  exist  only  in  the 
all-creating  power  of  God,  who  shall  stand  here,  a 
hundred    years  hence,    to   trace,   through    us,    their 


THE  FUTURE    OF  AMERICA.  209 

descent  from  the  Pilgrims,  and  to  survey,  as  we  have 
now  surveyed,  the  progress  of  their  country  during 
the  lapse  of  a  century.  We  would  anticipate  their 
concurrence  with  us  in  our  sentiments  of  deep  regard 
for  our  common  ancestors.  We  would  anticipate  and 
partake  of  the  pleasure  with  which  they  will  then  re- 
count the  steps  of  New  England's  advancement.  On 
the  morning  of  that  day,  although  it  will  not  disturb 
us  in  our  repose,  the  voice  of  acclamation  and  grati- 
tude, commencing  on  the  rock  of  Plymouth,  shall  be 
transmitted  through  millions  of  the  sons  of  the  Pil- 
grims, till  it  lose  itself  in  the  murmurs  of  the  Pacific 
seas.  We  would  leave  for  the  consideration  of  those 
who  shall  then  occupy  our  places,  some  proof  that  we 
hold  the  blessings  transmitted  from  our  fathers  in  just 
estimation  ;  some  proof  of  our  attachment  to  the 
cause  of  good  government,  and  ardent  desire  to  pro- 
mote everything  which  may  enlarge  the  understand- 
ings, and  improve  the  hearts  of  men.  And  when, 
from  the  long  distance  of  a  hundred  years,  they  shall 
look  back  upon  us,  they  shall  know,  at  least,  that  we 
possessed  affections,  which,  running  backward  and 
warming  with  gratitude  for  what  our  ancestors  have 
done  for  our  happiness,  run  forward  also  to  our  pos- 
terity, and  meet  them  with  cordial  salutation,  ere  yet 
they  have  arrived  on  the  shores  of  being. 

Advance,  then,  ye  future  generations  !  We  would 
hail  you,  as  you  rise  in  your  long  succession,  to  fill 
the  places  which  we  now  fill,  and  to  taste  the  blessings 
of  existence,  where  we  are  passing,  and  soon  shall 
have  passed,  our  human  duration.     We  bid  you  wel- 


2IO  GUILTY  OR  NOT  GUILTY. 

come  to  the  healthful  skies  and  the  verdant  fields  of 
New  England.  We  greet  your  accession  to  the  great 
inheritance  which  we  have  enjoyed.  We  welcome  you 
to  the  blessings  of  good  government,  and  religious 
liberty.  We  welcome  you  to  the  treasures  of  science, 
and  the  delights  of  learning.  We  welcome  you  to  the 
transcendent  sweets  of  domestic  life,  to  the  happiness 
of  kindred,  and  parents,  and  children.  We  welcome 
you  to  the  immeasurable  blessings  of  rational  exist- 
ence, the  immortal  hope  of  Christianity,  and  the  'ight 
of  everlasting  truth. 


GUILTY  OR  NOT  GUILTV. 

ANONYMOUS. 

She  stood  at  the  bar  of  justice, 

A  creature  wan  and  wild, 
In  form  too  small  for  a  woman, 

In  features  too  old  for  a  child, 
For  a  look  so  worn  and  pathetic 

Was  stamped  on  her  pale  young  face, 
It  seemed  long  years  of  suffering 

Must  have  left  that  silent  trace. 

"  Your  name  ?  "  said  the  judge,  as  he  eyed  her 

With  kindly  look  yet  keen, 
"Is  Mary  McGuire,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"  And  your  age  ?  " — "  I  am  turned  fifteen." 
"  Well,  Mary,"  and  then  from  a  paper 

He  slowly  and  gravely  read, 


GUILTY  OR  NOT  GUILTY.  211 

"  You  are  charged  here — I'm  sorry  to  say  it — 
With  stealing  three  loaves  of  bread." 

"  You  look  not  like  an  offender, 

And  I  hope  that  you  can  show 
The  charge  to  be  false.     Now,  tell  me. 

Are  you  guilty  of  this,  or  no  ?  " 
A  passionate  burst  of  weeping 

Was  at  first  her  sole  reply, 
But  she  dried  her  eyes  in  a  moment, 

And  looked  in  the  judge's  eye. 

"  I  will  tell  you  just  how  it  was,  sir : 

My  father  and  mother  are  dead, 
And  my  little  brother  and  sisters 

Were  hungry,  and  asked  me  for  bread. 
At  first  I  earned  it  for  them 

By  working  hard  all  day, 
But  somehow  times  were  bad,  sir, 

And  the  work  all  fell  away. 

"  I  could  get  no  more  employment ; 

The  weather  was  bitter  cold. 
The  young  ones  cried  and  shivered — 

(Little  Johnny's  but  four  years  old)  :-=^ 
So  what  was  I  to  do,  sir  ? 

I  am  guilty,  but  do  not  condemn  : 
I  took — oh,  was  it  stealing? — 

The  bread  to  give  to  them." 

Every  man  in  the  court-room — 

Gray  beard  and  thoughtless  youth — 


212  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

Knew,  as  he  looked  upon  her, 

That  the  prisoner  spake  the  truth  ; 

Out  from  their  pockets  came  kerchiefs. 
Out  from  their  eyes  sprang  tears, 

And  out  from  old  faded  wallets 
Treasures  hoarded  for  years. 

The  judge's  face  was  a  study — 

The  strangest  you  ever  saw, 
As  he  cleared  his  throat  and  murmured 

Something  about — the  law. 
For  one  so  learned  in  such  matters, 

So  wise  in  dealing  with  men, 
He  seemed,  on  a  simple  question. 

Surely  puzzled  just  then. 

But  no  one  blamed  him  or  wondered, 

When  at  last  these  words  they  heard  : 
"  The  sentence  of  this  young  prisoner 

Is,  for  the  present,  deferred." 
And  no  one  blamed  him  or  wondered. 

When  he  went  to  her  and  smiled, 
And  tenderly  led  from  the  court-room 

Himself  the  "  guilty  "  child. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

By  Wendell  Phillips,  Orator.  B.  1811,  Massachusetts;  d. 
1884. 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture  (Franjois  Dominique  Toussaint)  was 
born  in  St.  Domingo  in  1743,  and  died  in  Paris,  France,  in  1803 

If  I  were  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Napoleon,  I  should 
take  it  from  the  lips  of  Frenchmen,  who  find  no  Ian- 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.  213 

guage  rich  enough  to  paint  the  great  captain  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Were  I  to  tell  you  of  Washing- 
ton, 1  should  take  it  from  your  hearts,  you  who  think 
no  marble  white  enough  on  which  to  carve  the  name 
of  the  Father  of  his  Country.  But  I  am  to  tell  you 
the  story  of  a  negro  who  has  left  hardly  one  written 
line.  I  am  to  glean  it  from  the  reluctant  testimony 
of  his  enemies,  men  who  despised  him  because  he  was 
a  negro  and  a  slave,  hated  him  because  he  had  beaten 
them  in  battle. 

Napoleon  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven  was  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  best  troops  Europe  ever  saw. 
Cromwell  never  saw  an  army  till  he  was  forty.  This 
man  never  saw  a  soldier  till  he  was  fifty.  Cromwell 
manufactured  his  army  out  of  what?  Out  of  Eng- 
lishmen, the  best  blood  in  Europe.  And  with  it  he 
conquered  what?  Englishmen,  their  equals.  This 
man  manufactured  his  own  army  out  of  what  ?  Out 
of  what  you  call  the  despicable  race  of  negroes,  de- 
based, demoralized  by  two  hundred  years  of  slavery, 
one  hundred  thousand  of  them  imported  into  the 
island  within  four  years,  unable  to  speak  a  dialect 
intelligible  even  to  each  other.  Yet  out  of  this  mixed 
mass  he  forged  a  thunderbolt,  and  hurled  it  at  what  ? 
At  the  proudest  blood  in  Europe,  the  Spaniard,  and 
sent  him  home  conquered  ;  at  the  most  warlike  blood 
in  Europe,  the  French,  and  put  them  under  his  feet; 
at  the  pluckiest  blood  in  Europe,  the  English,  and 
they  skulked  home  to  Jamaica.  Now,  if  Cromwell 
was  a  general,  at  least  this  man  was  a  soldier.  Crom- 
well was  only  a  soldier,   his  fame  stops  there.     Not 


214  TO USSA INT  L'OU VER TURE. 

one  line  in  the  statute-book  of  Britain  can  be  traced 
to  Cromwell  ;  not  one  step  in  the  social  life  of  Eng- 
land finds  its  motive-power  in  his  brain.  The  state 
he  founded  went  down  with  him  to  its  grave.  But 
this  man  no  sooner  put  his  hand  on  the  helm  of  state, 
than  the  ship  steadied  with  an  upright  keel,  and  he 
began  to  evince  a  statemanship  as  marvelous  as  his 
military  genius.  In  1800,  this  negro  made  a  procla- 
mation ;  it  runs  thus  :  "  Sons  of  St.  Domingo,  come 
home.  We  never  meant  to  take  your  houses  or  your 
lands.  The  negro  only  asked  that  liberty  that  God 
gave  him.  Your  houses  wait  for  you,  your  lands  are 
ready,  come  and  cultivate  them."  And  from  Madrid 
and  Paris,  from  Baltimore  and  New  Orleans,  the  emi- 
grant planters  crowded   home  to  enjoy  their  estates, 

under  the  pledged  word  of  a  victorious  slave 

I  would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon  made  his 
way  to  empire  over  broken  oaths  and  through  a  sea 
of  blood.  This  man  never  broke  his  word.  "  No  re- 
taliation," was  the  great  motto  and  rule  of  his  life.  I 
would  call  him  Cromwell,  but  Cromwell  was  only  a 
soldier.  I  would  call  him  Washington,  but  the  great 
Virginian  held  slaves.  This  man  risked  his  empire, 
rather  than  permit  the  slave  trade  in  the  humblest 
village  in  his  dominions.  You  think  me  a  fanatic,  for 
you  read  history  not  with  your  eyes,  but  with  your 
prejudices.  But  when  Truth  gets  a  hearing,  the  muse 
of  history  will  put  Phocion  for  the  Greek,  Brutus  for 
the  Roman,  Hampden  for  England,  Fayette  for  France, 
Washington  as  the  bright  consummate  flower  of  our 
earlier  civilization,  and  John  Brown  the  ripe  fruit  of 


NATIO.VS  AND  HUMANITY.  215 

our  noonday  ;  then,  dipping  her  pen  in  the  sunlight, 
will  write  in  the  clear  blue,  above  them  all,  the  name  of 
the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  martyr, — Toussaint 
L'Ouverture. 


NATIONS  AND  HUMANITY.. 

By  George  William  Curtis,  Author,  Orator,  Lecturer,  Editor. 
B.  1824,  Rhode  Island  ;  lives  in  New  York. 

It  was  not  his  olive  valleys  and  orange  groves 
which  made  the  Greece  of  the  Greek  ;  it  was  not  for 
his  apple  orchards  or  potato  fields  that  the  farmer  of 
New  England  and  New  York  left  his  plough  in  the 
furrow  and  marched  to  Bunker  Hill,  to  Bennington, 
to  Saratoga.  A  man's  country  is  not  a  certain  area 
of  land,  but  it  is  a  principle  ;  and  patriotism  is  loyalty 
to  that  principle.  The  secret  sanctification  of  the  soil 
and  symbol  of  a  country  is  the  idea  which  they  repre- 
resent ;  and  this  idea  the  patriot  worships  through  the 
name  and  the  symbol. 

So  with  passionate  heroism,  of  which  tradition  is 
never  weary  of  tenderly  telling,  Arnold  von  Winkelreid 
gathers  into  his  bosom  the  sheaf  of  foreign  spears. 
So,  Nathan  Hale,  disdaining  no  service  that  duty  de- 
mands, perishes  untimely  with  no  other  friend  than 
God  and  the  satisfied  sense  of  duty.  So,  through  all 
history  from  the  beginning,  a  noble  army  of  martyrs 
has  fought  fiercely,  and  fallen  bravely,  for  that  un- 
seen mistress,  their  country. 

.  History  shows  us  that  the  association  of  men  in 
various  nations  is  made  subservient  to  the  gradual 
advance  of  the  whole  human  race  ;   and  that  all  na- 


2l6  NATIONS  AND  HUMANITY. 

tions  work  together  towards  one  grand  result.  So,  to 
the  philosophic  eye,  the  race  is  but  a  vast  caravan 
forever  moving,  but  seeming  often  to  encamp  for  cen- 
turies at  some  green  oasis  of  ease,  where  luxury  lures 
away  heroism,  as  soft  Capua  enervated  the  hosts  oi 
Hannibal. 

But  still  the  march  proceeds,  slowly,  slowly,  over 
mountains,  through  valleys,  along  plains,  marking  its 
course  with  monumental  splendors,  with  wars,  plagues, 
crime,  advancing  still,  decorated  with  all  the  pomp  of 
nature,  lit  by  the  constellations,  cheered  by  the  future, 
warned  by  the  past.  In  that  vast  march,  the  van  for- 
gets the  rear  ;  the  individual  is  lost ;  and  yet  the 
multitude  is  but  many  individuals.  He  faints,  and 
falls,  and  dies  ;  man  is  forgotten  ;  but  still  mankind 
move  on,  still  worlds  revolve,  and  the  will  of  God  is 
done  in  earth  and  heaven. 

We  of  America,  with  our  soil  sanctified  and  our 
symbol  glorified  by  the  great  ideas  of  liberty  and 
religion, — love  of  freedom  and  love  of  God, — are  in 
the  foremost  vanguard  of  this  great  caravan  of  hu- 
manity  To  us  the  nations  look,  and  learn  to  hope, 
while  they  rejoice.  Our  heritage  is  all  the  love  and 
heroism  of  liberty  in  the  past  ;  and  all  the  great  of  the 
"Old  World  "  are  our  teachers. 

And  so  with  our  individual  hearts  strong  in  love 
for  our  principles,  shall  the  nation  leave  to  coming 
generations  a  heritage  of  freedom,  and  law,  and  relig- 
ion, and  truth,  more  glorious  than  the  world  has 
known  before  ;  and  our  American  banner  be  planted 
first  and  highest  on  heights  as  yet  unwon  in  the  great 
march  of  humanity. 


THE  LOST  COLORS.  '>^^ 

THE  LOST  COLORS. 
By  Mary  A.  Barr,  Author. 

'TwAS  on  the  Crimea's  dreary  plain, 

When  England  fought  the  Russian  power ; 
A  regiment  'mid  fiery  rain, 

Forgot  in  some  tremendous  hour 
To  keep  their  honor  fair  and  bright, 

But  ere  the  victory  was  won, 
Smitten  with  pallid  coward  fright, 

The  post  of  duty  left,  and  run. 

Next  morn  they  keenly  felt  their  shame  ; 

With' drooping  heads  upon  parade, 
They  heard  the  stern,  cold  words  of  blame 

That  robbed  each  soldier  of  his  grade  : 
"  You  have  disgraced  the  flag  you  bore, 

And  stain'd  what  once  was  fair  and  bright; 
Your  hands  shall  never  bear  it  more — 

Without  your  colors  you  must  fight." 

For  many  weeks  they  had  their  shame. 

Of  freezing  watch  and  fiery  strife  : 
Their  punishment  was  hard  to  bear  ; 

A  constant  shame  outwearies  life. 
With  contrite  words  they  asked  again 

The  colors  that  should  o'er  them  wave. 
And  vowed  "  to  keep  them  free  from  stain. 

The  colors  of  the  True  and  Brave." 

The  General  said,  "  It  may  be  so, 
Yon  hill  with  men  and  cannon  black 


2i8  FREEDOM  OR   SLAVERY 

Must  be  retaken  ; — they  who  go 

To  do  that  work  must  not  turn  back, 

But  " — (pointing  to  the  topmost  peak 
Where  Russian  flags  were  flying  fair) 

"  This  is  the  hopeful  word  I  speak, 
Your  colors,  soldiers,  are  up  there." 

Each  sought  his  captain's  kindling  eye, 

Then  in  a  moment  turn'd  about  ; 
They  meant  to  take  the  hill,  or  die. 

As  up  they  went  with  ringing  shout. 
And  the  great  army,  watching,  saw 

The  victory,  not  too  dearly  bought, 
When  on  the  very  topmost  tower, 

The  humbled  colors  proudly  float. 


FREEDOM  OR  SLAVERY. 

Patrick  Henry,  Statesman,  Orator.  Twice  governor  of  Vir- 
ginia.     B.  1736,  Virginia  ;  d.  1799. 

Extract  from  a  speech  delivered  in  the  Assembly  of  Virginia  at 
Richmond,  March,  1775.  "  The  eloquent  words  of  Henry  aroused 
the  doubtful  and  hesitating  Assembly  to  action,  and  '  Give  me 
liberty,  or  give  me  death  !  '  became  the  war-cry  of  the  people 
against  British  oppression." 

I  HAVE  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided  ; 
and  that  is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no 
way  of  judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And 
judging  by  the  past,  I  wish  to  know  what  there  has 
been  in  the  conduct  of  the  British  ministry  for  the  last 
ten  years,  to  justify  those  hopes  with  which  gentlemen 
have  been  pleased  to  solace  themselves  and  the  house  ? 


FREEDOM  OR   SLAVERY,  219 

Is  it  that  insidious  smile  with  which  our  petition  has 
been  lately  received  ?  Trust  it  not,  sir  ;  it  will  prove 
a  snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  yourselves  to  be  be- 
trayed with  a  kiss.  Ask  yourselves  how  this  gracious 
reception  of  our  petition  comports  with  those  warhke 
preparations  which  cover  our  waters  and  darken  our 
land.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a  work  of 
love  and  reconciliation?  Have  we  shown  ourselves 
so  unwilling  to  be  reconciled,  that  force  must  be 
called  in  to  win  back  our  love  ?  Let  us  not  deceive 
ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the  implements  of  war  and 
subjugation  ;  the  last  argument  to  which  kings  resort. 
I  ask,  gentlemen,  sir,  what  means  this  martial  array, 
if  its  purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission  ?  Can 
gentlemen  assign  any  other  possible  motive  for  it  ? 
Has  Great  Britain  an  enemy  in  this  quarter  of  the 
world,  to  call  for  all  this  accum^ulation  of  navies  and 
armies  ?  No,  sir,  she  has  none.  They  are  meant  for 
us  :  they  can  be  meant  for  no  other.  They  are  sent 
over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon  us  those  chains,  which 
the  British  ministry  have  been  so  long  forging.  And 
what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them  ?  Shall  we  try  argu- 
ment ?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that  for  the  last  ten 
years.  Have  we  anything  7ie7v  to  offer  upon  the  sub- 
ject ?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in 
every  light  of  which  it  is  capable  ;  but  it  has  been 
all  in  vain.  Shall  we  resort  to  entreaty  and  humble 
supplication  ?  What  terms  shall  we  find,  which  have 
not  been  already  exhausted  ?  Let  us  not,  I  beseech 
you,  sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer. 

Sir,  we  have  done  everything  that  could  be  done, 


220  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN: 

to  avert  the  storm  which  is  now  coming  on.  We 
have  petitioned  ;  we  have  remonstrated  ;  we  have  sup- 
plicated ;  we  have  prostrated  ourselves  before  the 
throne,  and  have  implored  its  interposition  to  arrest 
the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and  Parliament. 
Our  petitions  have  been  slighted  ;  our  remonstrances 
have  produced  additional  violence  and  insult  ;  our 
supplications  have  been  disregarded  ;  and  we  have 
been  spurned,  with  contempt,  from  the  foot  of  the 
throne  !  In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  in- 
dulge the  fond  hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation. 
There  is  no  longer  any  room  for  hope.  If  we  wish  to 
be  free — if  we  mean  to  preserve  inviolate  those  ines- 
timable privileges  for  which  we  have  been  so  long 
contending — if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the 
noble  struggle  in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged, 
and  which  we  have  pledged  ourselves  never  to  aban- 
don, until  the  glorious  object  of  our  contest  shall  be 
obtained — we  must  fight  !  I  repeat  it,  sir,  we  must 
fight !  An  appeal  to  arms  and  to  the  God  of  Hosts 
is  all  that  is  left  us  ! 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

By  Emilio  Castelar,  Statesman,  Orator.     B.  1832,  Spain. 

The  past  century  has  not,  the  century  to  come  will 
not  have,  a  figure  so  grand,  as  that  of  Abraham  Lin- 
coln, because  as  evil  disappears  so  disappears  heroism 
also. 

I  have  often  contemplated  and  described  his  life. 
Born  in  a  cabin  of  Kentucky,  of  parents  who  could 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLM.  221 

hardly  read  ;  born  a  new  Moses  in  the  solitude  of 
the  desert,  where  are  forged  all  great  and  obstinate 
thoughts,  monotonous  like  the  desert,  and  growing  up 
among  those  primeval  forests,  which,  with  their  fra- 
grance, send  a  cloud  of  incense,  and,  with  their  mur- 
murs, a  cloud  of  prayers  to  heaven  ;  a  boatman  at 
eight  years  in  the  impetuous  current  of  the  Ohio,  and 
at  seventeen  in  the  vast  and  tranquil  waters  of  the 
Mississippi ;  later,  a  woodman,  with  axe  and  arm  fell- 
ing the  immemorial  trees,  to  open  a  way  to  unexplored 
regions  for  his  tribe  of  wandering  workers ;  reading 
no  other  book  than  the  Bible,  the  book  of  great 
sorrows  and  great  hopes,  dictated  often  by  prophets 
to  the  sound  of  fetters  they  dragged  through  Nine- 
veh and  Babylon  ;  a  child  of  Nature  ;  in  a  word,  by 
one  of  those  miracles  only  comprehensible  among 
free  peoples,  he  fought  for  the  country,  and  was  raised 
by  his  fellow-citizens  to  the  Congress  at  Washington, 
and  by  the  nation  to  the  Presidency  of  the  Republic ; 
and  when  the  evil  grew  more  virulent,  when  those 
States  were  dissolved,  when  the  slave-holders  uttered 
their  war-cry  and  the  slaves  their  groans  of  despair, 
humblest  of  the  humble  before  his  conscience,  greatest 
of  the  great  before  history,  ascends  the  Capitol,  the 
greatest  moral  height  of  our  time,  and  strong  and 
serene  with  his  conscience  and  his  thought ;  before 
him  a  veteran  army,  hostile  Europe  behind  him,  Eng- 
land favoring  the  South,  France  encouraging  reaction 
in  Mexico,  in  his  hands  the  riven  country  ;  he  arms 
two  millions  of  men,  gathers  half  a  million  of  horses, 
sends  his  artillery  twelve  hundred  miles  in  a  week,  from 


222  DRIVING  HOME    THE   COWS. 

the  banks  of  the  Potomac  to  the  shores  of  the  Tennes- 
see ;  fights  more  than  six  hundred  battles  ;  renews 
before  Richmond  the  deeds  of  Alexander,  of  Caesar  •, 
and,  after  having  emancipated  three  million  of  slaves^ 
that  nothing  might  be  wanting,  he  dies  in  the  ver}- 
moment  of  victory — like  Christ,  like  Socrates,  like  all 
redeemers,  at  the  foot  of  his  work.  His  work  !  sub- 
lime achievement !  over  which  humanity  shall  eternally 
shed  its  tears,  and  God  his  benedictions  ! 


DRIVING    HOME    THE    COWS. 
By  Kate  Putnam  Osgood,  Poet.     B.  1843,  Maine. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass, 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane  ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

9 

Under  the  willows  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go  ; 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun, 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp, — 


DRIVING  HOME    THE    COWS.  223 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bats  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night. 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm, 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late  ; 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done ; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one, — 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind. 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair. 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew  ;— 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawa 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 


224  THE    VICTOR    OF  MARENGO. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  Hps  are  dumb, 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


THE   VICTOR   OF    MARENGO. 

Anonymous. 

Napoleon  was  sitting  in  his  tent.  Before  him  lay 
the  map  of  Italy.  He  took  four  pins,  stuck  them  up, 
measured,  moved  the  pins,  and  measured  again. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  that  is  right.  I  will  capture  him 
there."  "Who  sire?"  said  an  officer.  "  Melas,  the 
old  fox  of  Austria.  He  will  return  from  Genoa,  pass 
through  Turin,  and  fall  back  on  Alexandria.  I  will 
cross  the  Po,  meet  him  on  the  plains  of  La  Servia, 
and  conquer  him  there."  And  the  finger  of  the  child 
of  destiny  pointed  to  Marengo.  But  God  thwarted 
Napoleon's  schemes,  and  the  well-planned  victory  of 
Napoleon  became  a  terrible  defeat. 

Just  as  the  day  was  lost  Desaix  came  sweeping 
across  the  field  at  the  head  of  his  cavalry,  and  halted 
near  the  eminence  where  stood  Napoleon.  In  the 
corps  was  a  drummer  boy,  a  gamin,  whom  Desaix  had 
picked  up  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  who  had  fol- 
lowed the  victorious  eagles  of  France  in  the  campaigns 
of  Egypt  and  Austria. 

As  the  column  halted,  Napoleon  shouted  to  him  : 
"Beat  a  retreat!"     The  boy  did  not  stir.     "Gamin, 


DECISIVE  INTEGRITY.  ■2.'2.l 

beat  a  retreat  !  "  The  boy  grasped  his  drumsticks, 
stepped  forward,  and  said :  "  O  sire,  T  don't  know 
how.  Desaix  never  taught  me  that.  But  I  can  beat 
a  charge.  Oh !  I  can  beat  a  charge  that  would  make 
the  dead  fall  in  line.  I  beat  that  charge  at  the  Pyra- 
mids once,  and  I  beat  it  at  Mt.  Tabor,  and  I  beat  it 
again  at  the  Bridge  of  Lodi,  and,  oh !  may  I  beat  it 
here  ? " 

Napoleon  turned  to  Desaix :  "  We  are  beaten ; 
what  shall  we  do  1  "  "  Do  ?  Beat  them  !  There  is 
time  to  win  a  victory  yet.  Up  !  gamin,  the  charge ! 
Beat  the  old  charge  of  Mt.  Tabor  and  Lodi!"  A 
moment  later  the  corps,  following  the  sword  gleam  of 
Desaix,  and  keeping  step  to  the  furious  roll  of  the 
gamin's  drum,  swept  down  on  the  host  of  Austria. 
They  drove  the  first  line  back  on  the  second,  the 
second  back  on  the  third,  and  there  they  died.  De- 
saix fell  at  the  first  volley,  but  the  line  never  faltered. 
As  the  smoke  cleared  away,  the  gamin  was  seen  in 
front  of  the  line,  still  beating  the  furious  charge,  as 
over  the  dead  and  wounded,  over  the  breastworks  and 
ditches,  over  the  cannon  and  rear-guard,  he  led  the 
way  to  victory. 

To-day  men  point  to  Marengo  with  wonderment. 
They  laud  the  power  and  foresight  that  so  skillfully 
planned  the  battle ;  but  they  forget  that  Napoleon 
failed,  and  that  a  gamin  of  Paris  put  to  shame  the 
child  of  destiny. 


2  26  THE   PURITAN  AND    THE   PILGRIM. 


THE   PURITAN   AND   THE   PILGRIM. 

By  George  Frisbie  Hoar,  Statesman,  Jurist,  Senator  of  the 
United  States.     B.  1826,  Massachusetts. 

An  extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  Charleston,  South  Caro- 
lina, December  22,  1898. 

"The  Pilgrim  of  Plymoutli  lias  a  character  in  history 
distinct  from  any  other.  He  was  gentle,  peaceful, 
tolerant,  gracious.  His  little  State  existed  for  seventy- 
two  years,  when  it  was  blended  with  the  Puritan  Com- 
monwealth of  Massachusetts.  He  enacted  the  mildest 
code  of  laws  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  treated  the 
Indian  with  justice  and  good  faith. 

"The  Pilgrim  was  a  model  and  an  example  of  a 
beautiful,  simple  and  stately  courtesy.  John  Robinson, 
and  Bradford,  and  Brewster,  and  Carver,  and  Winslow 
differ  as  much  from  the  dark  and  haughty  Endicott 
or  the  bigoted  Cotton  Mather  as  in  the  English  Church 
Jeremy  Taylor  and  George  Herbert  and  Donne  and 
Vaughn  differ  from  Laud  or  Bonner  or  Bancroft. 

"  The  children  of  the  Puritan  are  not  ashamed  of 
him.  The  Puritan  as  a  distinct,  vital  and  predominant 
power  lived  less  than  a  century  in  England.  He  ap- 
peared early  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  who  came  to 
the  throne  in  1558,  and  departed  at  the  restoration  of 
Charles  II.  in  1660.  But  in  that  brief  period  he  was  the 
preserver,  aye,  he  was  the  creator  of  English  freedom. 
By  the  confession  of  the  historians  who  most  dislike  him 
it  is  due  to  him  that  there  is  an  English  Constitution, 
■  "He  created  the  modern  House  of  Commons.  That 
House  when  he  took  his  seat  in  it  was  the  feeble  and 
timid  instrument  of  despotism.  When  he  left  it,  it 
was  what  it  has  ever  since  been  —  the  strongest,  freest, 
most  venerable  legislative  body  the  world  has  ever 
seen. 


THE  HERO   OF  THE    GUN.  227 

"  In  that  brief  but  crowded  century,  he  made  the 
name  of  Englishman  the  highest  title  of  honor  upon 
the  earth. 

"  And  so,  when  a  son  of  the  Puritans  comes  to  the 
South,  when  he  visits  the  home  of  the  Rutledges  and 
the  Pinckneys  and  of  John  C.  Calhoun,  if  there  be 
any  relationship  in  heroism,  or  among  the  lovers  of 
constitutional  liberty,  he  feels  that  he  can  '  claim  kin- 
dred there  and  have  the  claim  allowed.' 

"  The  Puritan  differs  from  the  Pilgrim  as  the  Hebrew 
prophet  from  St.  John.  You  will  find  him  wherever 
men  are  sacrificing  life,  or  the  delights  of  life,  on  the 
altar  of  duty. 

"  But  the  Pilgrim  is  of  a  gentler  and  a  lovelier 
nature.  He,  too,  if  Duty  or  Honor  call,  is  ready  for 
the  supreme  sacrifice.  But  his  weapon  is  love  and 
not  hate.  His  spirit  is  the  spirit  of  John,  the  beloved 
Disciple,  the  spirit  of  Grace,  Mercy  and  Peace.  His 
memory  is  as  sweet  and  fragrant  as  the  perfume  of 
the  little  flower  which  gave  its  name  to  the  ship  which 
brought  him  over." 


THE  HERO  OF  THE  GUN. 
By  Margaret  Junkin  Preston,  Poet.     B.  1838,  Virginia. 

Thp:  Captain  galloped  to  the  front, 

The  foam  upon  his  rein  ; 
And,  as  he  urged  his  swerving  steed 

Across  a  pile  of  slain, 

He  hailed  the  gunner  at  his  post  : 
"  Ho,  Fergus  !  pour  your  shell 


2  28  THE  HERO   OF   THE   GUN. 

Straight  in  the  face  of  yon  stout  line 
That  holds  the  height  so  well, 

"And  never  slack  your  raking  fire — 

No,  not  to  cool  your  gun  ; 
For  if  we  break  those  stubborn  ranks, 

I  think  the  day  is  won." 

The  gunner  wiped  his  smoke-dimmed  face — 

"  I'll  do  the  best  I  can, 
And  down — brave  fellows  though  they  be — 

We'll  bring  them  to  a  man  !  " 

"  I'll  trust  you  for  it  !  "—Like  a  flash 
The  Captain  turned  and  wheeled, 

And  with  his  sword  above  his  head 
Dashed  backward  to  the  field. 

Fierce  belched  the  cannon's  ceaseless  fire, . 

With  deadly  crash  and  din  ; 
And,  though  the  line  still  held  the  height, 

Its  ranks  began  to  thin. 

"  Two  rounds — and  we  will  clear  the  hill !  " 

But,  as  the  gunner  spoke, 
A  sudden  overwhelming  storm 

Of  bullets  o'er  him  broke. 

And  when  the  smoke  had  lifted,  there 

Still  straining  all  his  powers, 
They  heard  him  shout  :  "  Two  shots,  my  boys, 

And  then  the  day  is  ours  ! 

"  No  matter  if  one  arm  be  gone, 
I  keep  the  other  still  ; 


CHIEF  JUSTICE  MARSHALL.  229 

I  promised  I  would  do  my  best, 
And  so,  you'll  see,  I  will ! 

"  Let  me  make  trial  while  my  strength 

Can  do  the  duty  set ; 
I  tell  you  that  this  strong  left  hand 

Is  good  for  service  yet  !  " 

They  primed  the  piece,  and  twice  he  sent, 

With  all  too  deadly  aim. 
The  shells  that  mowed  the  broken  line, 

And  swept  the  hill  with  flame. 

"  Where's  Fergus  ?  " — and  the  Captain's  horse 

Came  spurring  into  sight — 
"  Where's  Fergus  ?  let  him  take  my  thanks, 

His  fire  has  won  the  fight !  " 

The  dying  gunner  raised  his  head, 

His  lips  were  faintly  stirred — 
"  Captain,  I  said  Fd  do  my  best — 

And — I  have  kept  my  word  !  " 


CHIEF  JUSTICE  MARSHALL. 

By  Edward  John  Phelps,  Jurist,  Minister  to  England.  B. 
1822,  Vermont. 

John  Marshall  was  born  in  Virginia  in  1755,  and  died  in  Phila- 
delphia, 1835.  He  was  a  renowned  jurist,  and  Chief  Justice  of 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  from  1801  until  his 
death. 

If  Marshall  had  been  only  what  I  suppose  all  the 
world  admits  he  was,  a  great  lawyer  and  a  very 
great   judge,   his  life,  after  all,   might  have   had  na 


230  CHIEF  JUSTICE  MARSHALL. 

greater  historical  significance,  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  term,  than  the  lives  of  manv  other  illustrious  Amer- 
icans,  who  in  their  day  and  generation  have  served 
and  adorned  their  country. 

But  it  is  not,  in  my  judgment,  as  a  great  judge 
merely,  or  in  comparison  with  other  great  judges,  that 
Chief  Justice  Marshall  will  have  his  place  in  ultimate 
history.  The  test  of  historical  greatness — the  sort  of 
greatness  that  becomes  important  in  future  history — 
is  not  great  ability  merely.  It  is  great  ability  com- 
bined with  great  opportunity,  greatly  employed.  The 
question  will  be,  how  much  a  man  did  to  shape  the 
course  of  human  affairs,  or  to  mould  the  character  of 
human  thought.  Did  he  make  history,  or  did  he  only 
accompany  and  embellish  it  ?  Did  he  shape  destiny, 
or  was  he  carried  along  by  destiny  ?  These  are  the 
inquiries  that  posterity  will  address  to  every  name 
that  challenges  permanent  admiration,  or  seeks  a 
place  in  final  history.  Now  it  is  precisely  in  that 
point  of  view,  as  it  appears  to  me,  that  adequate  jus- 
tice has  not  yet  been  done  to  Chief  Justice  Marshall. 
He  has  been  estimated  as  the  lawyer  and  the  judge, 
without  proper  consideration  of  how  much  more  he 
accomplished,  and  how  much  more  is  due  to  him  from 
his  country  and  the  world,  than  can  ever  be  due  to 
any  mere  lawyer  or  judge.  The  assertion  may  per- 
haps be  regarded  as  a  strong  one,  but  I  believe  it  will 
bear  the  test  of  reflection,  and  certainly  the  test  of 
reading  in  American  history,  that  practically  speaking 
we  are  indebted  to  Chief  Justice  Marshall  for  the 
American   Constitution,     I   do   not  mean  the  author- 


FIRST  BATTLE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.      231 

ship  of  it,  or  the  adoption  of  it,  although  in  that  he 
had  a  considerable  share,  but  for  that  practical  con- 
struction, that  wise  and  far-seeing  administration, 
which  raised  it  from  a  doubtful  experiment,  adopted 
with  great  hesitation  and  likely  to  be  readily  aban- 
doned if  its  practical  working  had  not  been  successful, 
raised  it,  I  say,  from  a  doubtful  experiment,  to  a  har- 
monious, a  permanent  and  a  beneficent  system  of  gov- 
ernment, sustained  by  the  judgment,  and  established 
in  the  affection  of  the  people.  He  was  not  the  com- 
mentator upon  American  constitutional  law  ;  he  was 
not  the  expounder  of  it  ;  he  was  the  author,  the 
creator  of  it. 

The  future  Hallam,  who  shall  sit  down  with  patient 
study  to  trace  and  elucidate  the  constitutional  his- 
tory of  this  country,  to  follow  it  from  its  origin, 
through  its  experimental  period  and  its  growth  to  its 
perfection,  to  pursue  it  from  its  cradle,  not  I  trust  to 
its  grave,  but  rather  to  its  immortality,  will  find  it  all, 
for  its  first  half  century,  in  those  luminous  judg- 
ments, in  which  Marshall,  with  an  unanswerable  logic, 
and  a  pen  of  light,  laid  before  the  world  the  conclu- 
sions of  his  court. 


THE  FIRST  BATTLE  OF  THE  REVOLU- 

TION. 

ANONYMOUS. 

The  Battle  of  Lexington  was  fought  April  19,   1775. 

A  CENTURY  ago,  on  sterile  land 

That  sturdy  souls  had  purchased  witii  their  blood, 


232      FIRST  BATTLE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

A  little,  patient  and  determined  band, 

Witli  rusty  flint-locks  at  their  shoulders,  stood. 

No  word  was  spoken  of  bravado  bold  ; 

No  eye  betokened  reckless  scorn  of  death  ; 
But  fast-set  lips  and  frowning  faces  told 

That  each  would  brave  the  worst  with  bated  breath 

A  mother's  blessing  was  on  every  son ; 

A  wife's  hot  tears  as  yet  had  hardly  dried  ; 
While  there  they'  halted,  daily  tasks  undone, 

And  British  ball  and  bayonet  defied. 

Those  were  our  fathers,  faithful  to  the  cause 

Of  continental  liberty  and  right. 
Not  craven  minions  of  despotic  laws, 

But  farmer-soldiers  steadfast  for  the  fight. 

The  ground  was  taken  by  a  martial  tread  ; 

The  red-coats  proudly  marched  upon  the  plain  ; 
"  Disperse,  ye  rebels  !  "  their  commander  said, 

"  Throw    down   your  arms    and    to    your    homes 
again  !  " 

Not  a  staunch  patriot  from  his  duty  shrank, 
Not  a  knee  trembled  at  the  ringing  shot, 

As  Lexington's  green  sod  the  warm  blood  drank 
Of  men  whose  memory  ne'er  will  be  forgot. 

A  gun  was  fired — the  first  loved  martyr  fell — 
His  comrades'  muskets  quick  a  requiem  rung. 

Whose  volleys  echoed  out  a  tyrant's  knell. 

While  to  the  breeze  the  pine-tree  flag  was  flung. 


ABSALOM'S    VISION.  233 

A  nation  on  that  day  was  newly  born. 

And  England  lost  her  best  and  brightest  gem  ; 

Her  royal  robes  were  trampled  on  and  torn. 
And  fair  Columbia  won  a  diadem. 


ABSALOM'S   VISION. 
By  James  Abraham  Hillhouse,  Author.     B.   1789,  Connec- 
ticut; d.  1841. 

Methought  I  stood  again,  at  dead  of  night, 
In  that  rich  sepulcher,  viewing  alone 
The  wonders  of  the  place.     My  wondering  eyes 
Rested  upon  the  costly  sarcophage 
Reared  in  the  midst.     I  saw  therein  a  form 
Like  David  :  not  as  he  appears,  but  young 
And  ruddy.     In  his  lovely  tinctured  cheek, 
The  vermil  blood  looked  pure  and  fresh  as  life 
In  gentle  slumber.     On  his  blooming  brow 
Was  bound  the  diadem.     But  while  I  gazed. 
The  phantasm  vanished,  and  my  father  lay  there, 
As  he  is  now,  his  head  and  beard  in  silver, 
Sealed  with  the  pale  fixed  impress  of  the  tomb, 
I  knelt  and  wept.     But,  when  I  thought  to  kiss 
My  tears  from  off  his  reverend  cheek,  a  voice 
Cried,  "Impious!  hold!"  —  and  suddenly  there  stood 
A  dreadful  and  refulgent  form  before  me, 
Bearing  the  Tables  of  the  Law. 
It  spake  not,  moved  not,  but  still  sternly  pointed 
To  one  command,  which  shone  so  fiercely  bright, 
It  seared  mine  eyeballs.     Presently  I  seemed 
Transported  to  the  desolate  wild  shore 


234  ULTIMA    VERITAS. 

Of  Asphaltites,  night,  and  storm,  and  fire, 

Astounding  me  with  horror.     All  alone 

I  wandered ;  but  where'er  I  turned  my  eyes, 

On  the  bleak  rocks,  or  pitchy  clouds,  or  closed  them, 

Flamed  that  command. 

Then  suddenly  I  sunk  down,  down,  methought,  . 
Ten  thousand  cubits,  to  a  wide 
And  traveled  way,  walled  to  the  firmament 
On  either  side,  and  filled  with  hurrying  nations ; 
Hurrying,  or  hurried  by  some  spell 
Toward  a  portentous  (adamantine)  gate. 
Towering  before  us  to  the  empyrean. 
Beside  it  Abraham  sat,  in  reverend  years 
And  gracious  majesty,  snatching  his  seed 
From  its  devouring  jaws.      When  I  approached, 
He  groaned  forth,  "  Parricide  !  "  and  stretched  no  aid  — 
To  me  alone,  of  all  his  children.     Then, 
What  flames,  what  howling  fiery  billows  caught  me 
(Like  the  red  ocean  of  consuming  cities), 
And  shapes  most  horrid ;  all,  methought,  in  crowns 
Scorching  as  molten  brass,  and  every  eye 
Bloodshot  with  agony,  yet  none  had  power 
To  tear  them  off.     With  frantic  yells  of  joy. 
They  crowned  me  too,  and  with  the  pang,  I  woke. 


ULTIMA  VERITAS. 

By  Washington  Gladden,  Clergyman,    Author.     B.    1836, 
Pennsylvania. 

In  the  bitter  waves  of  woe, 
Beaten  and  tossed  about 


ULTIMA    VERITAS.  235 

By  the  sullen  winds  that  blow 

From  the  desolate  shores  of  doubt,— 

When  the  anchors  that  faith  had  cast 

Are  dragging  in  the  gale, 
I  am  quietly  holding  fast 

To  the  things  that  cannot  fail  : 

I  know  that  right  is  right ; 

That  it  is  not  good  to  lie  ; 
That  love  is  better  than  spite, 

And  a  neighbor  than  a  spy  ; 

I  know  that  passion  needs 

The  leash  of  a  sober  mind  ; 
I  know  that  generous  deeds 

Some  sure  reward  will  find  ; 

That  the  rulers  must  obey  ; 

That  the  givers  shall  increase  ; 
That  duty  lights  the  way 

For  the  beautiful  feet  of  Peace  ; — 

In  the  darkest  night  of  the  year, 
When  the  stars  have  all  gone  out. 

That  courage  is  belter  than  fear, 
That  faith  is  truer  than  doubt ; 

And  fierce  though  the  fiends  may  fights 
And  long  though  the  angels  hide, 

I  know  that  Truth  and  Right 

Have  the  universe  on  their  side  ; 


236  THE  ARMY  OF    THE  POTOMAC. 

And  that  somewhere,  beyond  the  stars, 
Is  a  Love  that  is  better  than  fate  ; 

When  the  night  unlocks  her  bars 
I  shall  see  Him,  and  I  will  wait. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC. 

By  Chauncey  Mitchell  Depew,  Lawyer,  Orator,  R.  R. 
President.     B.  1834,  N.  Y. 

Part  of  an  oration  delivered  at  the  Reunion  of  the  "  Army  of  the 
Potomac  "  at  Saratoga,  N.  Y.,  June  22,  1887.  The  name  "  Army 
of  the  Potomac"  was  applied  to  that  portion  of  the  Union  forces 
which  operated  between  Washington  and  Richmond  during  the 
Civil  War. 

To  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  belongs  the  unique 
distinction  of  being  its  own  hero.  It  fought  more 
battles  and  lost  more  in  killed  and  wounded  than 
all  the  others  ;  it  shed  its  blood  like  water  to  teach 
incompetent  officers  the  art  of  war,  and  political  tac- 
ticians the  folly  of  their  plans  ;  but  it  was  always  the 
same  invincible  and  undismayed  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac. Loyal  ever  to  its  mission  and  to  discipline,  the 
only  sound  it  gave  in  protest  of  the  murderous  folly 
of  cabinets  and  generals  was  the  crackling  of  the 
bones  as  cannon-balls  ploughed  through  its  decimated 
ranks.  It  suffered  for  four  years  under  unparalleled 
abuse,  and  was  encouraged  by  little  praise,  but  never 

murmured. 

******* 

At  last  this  immortal  anny  of  Cromwellian  descent, 
of  Viking  ancestry,  and  the  blood  of  Brian  Boru,  had 
at  its  head  a  great  captain  who  had  never  lost  a  battle 


THE  ARMY  OF   THE  POTOMAC.  237 

and  whom  President  Lincoln  had  freed  from  political 
meddling  and  the  interference  of  the  civil  authorities. 
Every  morning  for  thirty  days  came  the  orders  to 
storm  the  works  in  front,  and  every  evening  for  thirty 
nights  the  survivors  moved  to  the  command,  "  By  the 
left  flank,  forward,  march,"  and  at  the  end  of  that 
fateful  month,  with  sixty  thousand  comrades  dead  or 
wounded  in  the  Wilderness,  the  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac once  more,  after  four  years,  saw  the  spires  of 
Richmond.  Inflexible  of  purpose,  insensible  to  suffer- 
ing, inured  to  fatigue,  and  reckless  of  danger,  it 
rained  blow  on  blow  upon  its  heroic  but  staggering 
foe,  and  the  world  gained  a  new  and  better  and  freer 
and  more  enduring  Republic  than  it  had  ever  known, 
in  the  surrender  at  Appomattox. 

When  Lincoln  and  Grant  and  Sherman,  firmly  hold- 
ing behind  them  the  vengeful  passions  of  the  Civil 
War,  put  out  their  victorious  arms  to  the  South  and 
said,  "  We  are  brethren,"  this  generous  and  patriotic 
army  joined  in  the  glad  acclaim  and  welcome  with 
their  fervent  "  Amen."  Twenty-two  years  have  come 
and  gone  since  you  marched  down  Pennsylvania 
Avenue  past  the  people's  representatives,  to  whom 
you  and  your  Western  comrades  there  committed  the 
government  you  had  saved  and  the  liberties  you  had 
redeemed  ;  past  Americans  from  whose  citizenship 
you  had  wiped  with  your  blood  the  only  stain,  and 
made  it  the  proudest  of  earthly  titles.  Call  the  roll. 
The  names  reverberate  from  earth  to  heaven.  "All 
present  or  accounted  for."  Here  the  living  answer 
for  the  dead,  there  the  spirits  of  the  dead  answer  for 


238        JOHN    WYCLIFFE  AND    THE  BIBLE. 

the  living.  As  God  musters  them  out  on  earth,  he 
enrolls  them  above,  and  as  the  Republic  marches 
down  the  ages,  accumulating  power  and  splendor  with 
each  succeeding  century,  the  van  will  be  led  by  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac. 


JOHN  WYCLIFFE  AND  THE  BIBLE. 

By  Richard  Salter  Storks,  Clergyman.  B.  1821,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  lives  in  Brooklyn,  New  York. 

Oration  delivered  December  2,  1880,  in  New  York  city  at  the 
Wycliffe  Semi-Millennial  Celebration,  in  commemoration  of  the 
first  translation  of  the  Bible  into  the  English  language  by  John 
Wycliffe, 

The  principal  earthly  work  of  John  Wycliffe,  that 
which  gave  him  his  final  and  grand  renown,  was  the 
gift  to  his  country  of  the  first  English  Bible 

How  vast  the  impression  produced  by  the  version 
which  thus  burst  into  use,  not  on  language  only,  but 
on  life,  in  the  whole  sphere  of  moral,  social,  spiritual, 
even  political  experience,  who  shall  declare  !  To  the 
England  of  his  time,  confused,  darkened,  with  dim 
outlook  over  this  world  or  the  next,  the  Lutterworth 
Rector  brought  the  superlative  educational  force. 
He  opened  before  it,  in  the  Bible,  long  avenues  of  his- 
tory. He  made  it  familiar  with  the  most  enchanting 
and  quickening  sketches  of  personal  character  ever 
pencilled.  He  carried  it  to  distant  lands  and  peoples, 
further  than  crusaders  had  gone  with  Richard,  further 

than  Alfred's  messengers   had  wandered The 

grandest  poetry  became  its  possession  ;  the  sovereign 
law,  on    which  the   blaze   of   Sinai   shone,  or  which 


JOHN    WYCLIFFE  AND    THE  BIBLE.         239 

glowed  with  serener  light  of  divinity  from  the  Mount 
of  Beatitudes.  Inspired  minds  came  out  of  the  past — 
Moses,  David,  Isaiah,  John,  the  man  of  Idumea,  the 
man  of  Tarsus — to  teach  by  this  version  the  long-desir- 
ing English  mind.  It  gave  peasants  the  privilege  of 
those  who  had  heard  Elijah's  voice  in  the  ivory 
palaces,  of  those  who  had  seen  the  heaven  opened  by 
the  river  of  Chebar,  of  those  who  had  gathered  before 
the  "  temples  made  with  hands  "  which  crowned  the 
Acropolis.  They  looked  into  the  faces  of  apostles 
and  martyrs,  of  seers  and  kings,  and  walked  with 
Abraham  in  the  morning  of  time. 

They  stood  face  to  face,  amid  these  pages,  with  One 
higher  than  all  ;  and  the  kingliest  life  that  ever  lived 
on  the  earth  became  near  and  supreme  to  the  souls 
which  had  known  no  temper  in  rank  save  that  of  dis- 
dain, no  touch  of  power  which  did  not  oppress.  Not 
only  again,  in  lucid  column,  the  pillar  of  fire  marshalled 
God's  hosts.  Not  only  again  were  waters  divided, 
and  fountains  made  to  gush  from  rocks.  Angelic 
songs  were  heard  once  more,  above  the  darkened 
earthly  hills.  Again,  as  aforetime,  the  Lord  of  Glory 
walked  as  a  brother  from  Nazareth  and  from  Bethany, 
strewing  miracles  in  his  path,  yet  leading  the  timid  to 
the  mount  which  burned  with  peaceful  splendor,  show- 
ing the  penitent  his  cross,  walking  with  mourners  to 
the  tomb.  From  the  paradise  of  the  past  to  the  para- 
dise above,  the  vast  vision  stretched  ;  and  gates  of 
pearl  were  brightly  opened  above  the  near  and  murky 
skies.  The  thoughts  of  men  were  carried  up  on  the 
thoughts  of  God,  then  first  articulate  to  them.     The 


240  THE  FOOL'S  PR  A  YER. 

lowly  English  roof  was  lifted,  to  take  in  heights 
beyond  the  stars.  Creation,  Providence,  Redemption, 
appeared  harmonious  with  each  other,  and  luminous 
with  eternal  wisdom  ;  a  light  streamed  forward  on  the 
history  of  the  world,  a  brighter  light  on  the  vast  and 
immortal  experience  of  the  soul  ;  the  bands  of  dark- 
ness broke  apart,  and  the  universe  was  effulgent  with 
the  lustre  of  Christ ! 


THE   FOOL'S   PRAYER. 

By   Edward   Rowland   Sill,   Poet,    Professor,    Editor.     B. 
1841,  Connecticut;  d.  1887,  Ohio. 

The  royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  !  " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells. 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before  ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool  ; 
His  pleading  voice  arose  :  "  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ,;; 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  :  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  ! 


THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER.  241 

"  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay  ; 

'Tis  by  our  folUes  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end  ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 

Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept  — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  ? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all  ; 

But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  Heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  !  " 

The  room  was  hushed  ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool. 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  !  " 


242  PALLADIUM. 

PALLADIUM. 

By  Matthew  Arnold.  Poet,  Professor,   Essayist.  Critic.     B. 
i822,  England  ;  d.  1889,  England. 

Set  where  the  upper  streams  of  Simois  flow 
Was  the  Palladium,  high  'mid  rock  and  wood  ; 

And  Hector  was  in  Ilium,  far  below, 

And  fought,  and  saw  it  not— but  there  it  stood  ! 

It  stood,  and  sun  and  moonshine  rain'd  their  light 
On  the  pure  columns  of  its  glen-built  hall. 

Backward  and  forward  roll'd  the  waves  of  fight 

Round  Troy — but  while  this  stood,  Troy  could  not 
fall. 

So,  in  its  lovely  moonlight,  lives  the  soul. 

Mountains  surround  it,  and  sweet  virgin  air  ; 
Cold  plashing,  past  it,  crystal  waters  roll  ; 

We  visit  it  by  moments,  ah,  too  rare  ! 

We  shall  renew  the  battle  in  the  plain 

To-morrow  ; — red  with  blood  will  Xanthus  be  ; 

Hector  and  Ajax  will  be  there  again, 
Helen  will  come  upon  the  wall  to  see. 

Then  we  shall  rust  in  shade,  or  shine  in  strife, 

And  fluctuate  'twixt  blind  hopes  and  blind  despairs, 

And  fancy  that  we  put  forth  all  our  life, 
And  never  know  how  with  the  soul  it  fares. 

Still  doth  the  soul,  from  its  lone  fastness  high, 

Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send. 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we  die  ; 

And  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end. 


THE   INVISIBLE  HEROES.  243 


THE  INVISIBLE   HEROES. 

By  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  Clergyman,  Orator,  Author.      B. 
1813,  Connecticut;  d.  1887,  Brooklyn. 

How  bright  are  tne  honors  which  await  those  who, 
ft'ith  sacred  fortitude  and  patriotic  patience,  have  en- 
dured all  things  that  they  might  save  their  nation 
from  division,  and  from  the  power  of  corruption  ! 
The  honored  dead  !  They  that  die  for  a  good  cause 
are  redeemed  from  death  ;  their  names  are  gathered 
and  garnered  ;  their  memory  is  precious  ;  each  place 
grows  proud  for  them  who  were  born  there.  There 
is  in  every  village,  and  in  every  neighborhood,  a  glow- 
ing pride  in  its  martyred  heroes  ;  tablets  preserve 
their  names  ;  pious  love  shall  renew  the  inscriptions 
as  time  and  the  unfeeling  elements  efface  them.  And 
the  national  festivals  shall  give  multitudes  of  precious 
names  to  the  orator's  lips.  Children  shall  grow  up 
under  more  sacred  inspirations,  whose  elder  brothers, 
dying  nobly  for  their  country,  left  a  name  that  hon- 
ored and  inspired  all  who  bore  it. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  that  they  are  dead,  that  generous 
nost,  that  army  of  invisible  heroes  !  Are  they  dead 
that  yet  speak  louder  than  we  can  speak,  and  a  more 
universal  language?  \rt  they  dead  that  yet  act? 
Are  they  dead  that  yet  move  upon  society  and  inspire 
me  people  with  nobler  motives  and  more  heroic 
patriotism  ?  Ye  that  mourn,  let  gladne.'is  mingle  with 
your  tears ;  he  was  your  son,  but  now  he  is  the 
nation's  ;  he  made   your   household   h.-ight,   now    his 


2  44  ^^^  INVISIBLE   HEROES. 

example  inspires  a  thousand  households  ;  dear  to  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  he  is  now  brother  of  every  gener- 
ous youth  in  the  land  ;  before,  he  was  narrowed,  ap- 
propriated, shut  up  to  you  ;  now  he  is  augmented,  set 
free,  and  given  to  all  ;  before,  he  was  yours,  now  he 
is  ours  ;  he  has  died  to  the  family  that  he  might  live 
to  the  nation.  Not  one  name  shall  be  forgotten  or 
neglected,  and  it  shall  by  and  by  be  confessed  of  our 
modern  heroes,  as  it  is  of  an  ancient  hero,  that  he  did 
more  for  his  country  by  his  death  than  by  his  whole 
life. 

O  mother  of  lost  children  !  sit  not  in  darkness  nor 
sorrow  over  those  whom  a  nation  honors.  O  mourn- 
ers of  the  early  dead  !  they  shall  live  again,  and  live 
forever;  your  sorrows  are  bur  gladness  ;  the  nation 
lives  because  you  gave  it  men  that  loved  it  better  than 
their  own  lives.  And  when  the  nation  shall  sit  in  un- 
sullied garments  of  liberty  with  justice  upon  her  fore- 
head, love  in  her  eyes,  and  truth  on  her  lips,  she  shall 
not  forget  those  whose  blood  gave  vital  currents  to 
her  heart,  and  whose  life  given  to  her  shall  live  with 
her  life  till  time  shall  be  no  more.  Every  mountain 
and  hill  shall  have  its  treasured  name,  every  river  shall 
keep  some  solemn  title,  every  valley  and  every  lake 
shall  cherish  its  honored  register,  and,  till  the  moun- 
tains are  worn  out  and  the  rivers  forget  to  flow,  till  the 
clouds  are  weary  of  replenishing  springs,  and  the 
springs  forget  to  gush  and  the  rills  to  sing,  shall  their 
names  be  kept  fresh  with  reverent  honors,  which  are 
inscribed  upon  the  book  of  national  remembrance. 


SCOTLAND.  245 

SCOTLAND. 

By  Edmund  Flagg,  Lawyer,  Novelist.     B.  181 5,  Maine. 

Scotland  !  There  is  magic  in  tlie  sound.  States- 
men, scholars,  divines,  heroes,  poets  !  Do  you  want 
exemplars  worthy  of  study  and  imitation?  Where 
will  you  find  them  brighter  than  in  Scotland  ?  Where 
can  you  find  them  purer  than  in  Scotland  ?  Here,  no 
Solon,  indulging  imagination,  has  pictured  the  per- 
fectibility of  man ;  no  Lycurgus,  viewing  him  through 
the  medium  of  human  frailty  alone,  has  left  for  his 
government  an  iron  code,  graven  on  eternal  adamant; 
no  Plato,  dreaming  in  the  luxurious  gardens  of  the 
Academy,  has  fancied  what  he  should  be,  and  be- 
queathed a  republic  of  love  ;  but  sages,  knowing  his 
weakness,  have  appealed  to  his  understanding,  cher- 
ished his  virtues,  and  chastised  his  vices. 

Friends  of  learning !  w'ould  you  do  homage  at  the 
shrine  of  literature .''  would  you  visit  her  clearest 
founts  ?  Go  to  Scotland !  Are  you  philosophers, 
seeking  to  explore  the  hidden  mysteries  of  mind .-' 
Bend  to  the  genius  of  Stewart.  Student,  merchant, 
or  mechanic !  do  you  seek  usefulness  ?  Consult  the 
pages  of  Black  and  of  Adam  Smith.  Grave  barrister! 
would  you  know  the  law,  the  true,  sole  expression  of 
the  people's  will  ?    There  stands  the  mighty  Mansfield. 

Do  we  look  for  high  examples  of  noble  daring  ? 
Where  shall  we  find  them  brighter  than  in  Scotland  ? 
From  the  "bonny  highland  heather  "  of  her  lofty  sum- 
mits, to  the  modest  lily  of  the  vale,  not  a  flower  but  has 


246  "  NON  OMNIS  MORIAR." 

blushed  with  patriot  blood.  From  the  proud  foaming 
crest  of  the  Solway,  to  the  calm,  polished  breast  of 
Loch  Katrine,  not  a  river,  not  a  lake,  but  has  swelled 
with  the  life  tide  of  freedom.  Would  you  witness 
greatness  ?  Contemplate  a  Wallace  and  a  Bruce. 
They  fought  not  for  honors,  for  party,  for  conquest  ; 
'twas  for  their  country  and  their  country's  good,  re- 
ligion, law,  and  liberty. 


"  NON  OMNIS  MORIAR." 

By  QuiNTUS  HoRATius  Flaccus,  Satirist,  Lyrist.     B.  65  B.C. 
Venusia  ;  d.  8  B.C. 

From  the  Third  Book  of  Odes. 

ExEGi  monumentum  acre  perennius, 
Regalique  situ  pyramidum  altius. 
Quod  non  imber  edax,  non  Aquilo  impotens 
Possit  diruere,  aut  innumerabilis 
Annorum  series  et  fuga  temporum. 
Non  omnis  moriar,  multaque  pars  mei 
Vitabit  Libitinam  :  usque  ego  postera 
Crescam  laude  recens,  dum  Capitolium 
Scandet  cum  tacita  virgine  pontifex. 
Dicar,  qua  violens  obstrepit  Aufidus 
Et  qua  pauper  aquae  Daunus  agrestium 
Regnavit  populorum,  ex  humili  potens 
Princeps  Solium  carmen  ad  Italos 
Deduxisse  modos.     Sume  superbiam 
Quaesitam  meritis,  et  mihi  Delphica 
Lauro  cinge  volens,  Melpomene,  comam. 

— Liber  JJI.  Carmen  XXX, 


CRISP  I  A  N  'S  DAY.  247 


CRISPIAN'S  DAY. 

By  William  Shakespeare,  Poet.  Dramatist,  Theatre  Mana- 
ger, Actor.  B.  1564,  England  ;  d  1616,  at  Stratford-upon- 
Avon. 

The  battle  of  Agincourt  was  won  by  [lenry  V.  of  England,  on 
St.  Crispin's  Day,  October  25,  1415.  This  victory  was  gained  in 
spite  of  enormous  odds  in  favor  of  the  French. 

Crispian,  a  saint  and  martyr,  was  put  to  death  in  the  year  287. 
He  was  distinguished  for  his  zeal  in  spreading  Christianity  and 
for  his  deeds  of  charity. 

This  extract  is  from  "  King  Henry  V." 

What's  he  that  wishes  so  ?  [for  one  man  more] 
My  cousin  Westmoreland  ? — No,  my  fair  cousin  : 
If  we  are  marked  to  die,  we  are  enough 
To  do  our  country  loss  ;  and  if  to  live, 
The  fewer  men  the  greater  share  of  honor. 
God's  will  !  I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man  more. 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold  ; 
Nor  care  I,  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost  ; 
It  yearns  me  not,  if  men  my  garments  wear  ; 
Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires. 
But,  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honor, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 
No,  faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England  : 
God's  peace  !     I  would  not  lose  so  great  an  honor, 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from  me. 
For  the    best  hope  I   have.      Oh,  do  not  wish  one 

more  : 
Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host, 
That  he,  who  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight, 
Let  him  depart  ;  his  passport  shall  be  made, 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse  ; 


248  CRISPIAN'S  DA  Y. 

We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company, 

That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 

This  day  is  called  the  feast  of  Crispian  : 

He  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 

Will  stand  a-tiptoe  when  this  day  is  named, 

And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 

He,  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age, 

Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  friends. 

And  say  to-morrow  is  Saint  Crispian  : 

Then  he  will  strip  his  sleeve,  and  show  his  scars, 

And  say,  these  wounds  I  had  on  Crispian's  day. 

Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot, 

But  he'll  remember  with  advantages, 

What  feats  he  did  that  day  !     Then  shall  our  names. 

Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  household  words, — 

Harry  the  king,  Bedford  and  Exeter, 

Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster, — 

Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remembered  : 

This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son  ; 

And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by. 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered  ; 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers  : 

For  he,  to-day,  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me. 

Shall  be  my  brother  ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile. 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition  : 

And  gentlemen  in  England,  now  a-bed, 

Shall  think  themselves  accursed,  they  were  not  here 

And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap,  while  any  speaks, 

That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispian's  Day. 


QUEEN   OF  FRANCE.  249 

THE  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE  AND  THE  SPIRIT 
OF  CHIVALRY. 

By  Edmund  Burke,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1729,  Ireland;  d. 
1797,  England. 

The  following  extract  is  taken  from  "  Reflections  on  the  French 
Revolution,"  published  in  1790. 

Marie  Antoinette,  wife  of  Louis  XVI.,  was  put  to  death  by 
order  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal,  October  16,  1793. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw 
the  Queen  of  France,  then  the  Dauphiness,  at  Ver- 
sailles ;  and  surely  never  lighted  on  this  orb,  which 
she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  delightful  vision. 
I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and 
cheering  the  elevated  sphere  she  had  just  begun  to 
move  in,  glittering  like  a  morning  star,  full  of  life 
and  splendor  and  joy. 

Oh  !  what  a  revolution  !  and  what  a  heart  must  I 
have  to  contemplate,  without  emotion,  that  elevation 
and  that  fall ! 

Little  did  I  dream,  when  she  added  titles  of  venera- 
tion to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respectful  love, 
that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp 
antidote  against  disgrace  concealed  in  that  bosom  ; 
little  did  I  dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see  such 
disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in 
a  nation  of  men  of  honor  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought 
ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped  from  their 
scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened  her 
with  insult. 

But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone,  that -of  sophisters, 
economists,  and  calculators  has  succeeded  ;  and  the 


250      THE  NECESSITY  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  forever.  Never, 
never  more  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to 
rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  subordina- 
tion of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude 
itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  unbought 
grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  nurse 
of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise  is  gone.  It 
is  gone,  that  sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of 
honor,  which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired 
courage  while  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled 
whatever  it  touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost 
half  its  evil  by  losing  all  its  grossness. 


THE  NECESSITY  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

By  Samuel  Adams,  Statesman,  Patriot.  B.  1722,  Massachu. 
setts;  d.  1803. 

From  the  day  on  which  an  accommodation  takes 
place  between  England  and  America,  on  any  other 
terms  than  as  independent  States,  I  shall  date  the 
ruin  of  this  country.  A  politic  minister  will  study  to 
lull  us  into  security,  by  granting  us  the  full  extent  of 
our  petitions.  The  warm  sunshine  of  influence  would 
melt  down  the  virtue  which  the  violence  of  the  storm 
rendered  more  firm  and  unyielding.  In  a  state  of 
tranquillity,  wealth,  and  luxury,  our  descendants  would 
forget  the  arts  of  war,  and  the  noble  activity  and  zeal 
which  made  their  ancestors  invincible.  Every  art  of 
corruption  would  be  employed  to  loosen  the  bond 
which  renders  our  resistance  formidable.  When  the 
spirit  of  liberty  which  now  animates  our  hearts  and 


THE  TRENTON'S  CHEER  TO  THE  CALLIOPE.    251 

gives  success  to  our  arms  becomes  extinct,  our  num- 
bers will  accelerate  our  ruin,  and  render  us  easier 
victims  of  tyranny.  Ye  abandoned  minions  of  an 
infatuated  ministry,  if  peradventure  any  should  yet 
remain  among  us! — remember  that  Warren  and  Mont- 
gomery are  numbered  among  the  dead.  Contemplate 
the  mangled  bodies  of  your  countrymen,  and  then  say 
what  should  be  the  reward  of  such  sacrifices.  Bid 
us  and  our  posterity  bow  the  knee,  supplicate  the 
friendship,  and  plow,  and  sow,  and  reap,  to  glut  the 
avarice  of  the  men  who  have  let  loose  on  us  the  dog's 
of  war  to  riot  in  our  blood,  and  hunt  us  from  the  face 
of  the  earth.  If  ye  love  wealth  better  than  liberty, 
the  tranquillity  of  servitude  than  the  animating  contest 
of  freedom — go  from  us  in  peace.  We  ask  not  your 
counsels  or  arms.  Crouch  down  and  lick  the  hands 
which  feed  you.  May  your  chains  set  lightly  upon 
you,  and  may  posterity  forget  that  ye  were  our 
countrymen. 


THE     TRENTON'S     CHEER    TO    THE    CAL- 

LIOPE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

On  March  16,  1889,  in  the  midst  of  a  hurricane  at  Apia,  a  harbor 
of  the  Samoan  Islands,  a  number  of  vessels  were  destroyed,  among 
which  was  the  United  States  man-of-war  Trenton. 

Consider  the  scene  and  the  matchless  heroism  and 
generosity  of  the  Yankee  crew.  Almost  sure  of  in- 
stant  death  themselves,  they  could  see  the  Queen's 
ship  at  her  utmost  steam-pressure  fighting,  fathom  by 


252    THE  TRENTON'S  CHEER  TO  THE  CALLIOPE. 

fathom,  her  way  to  life  and  safety,  could  appreciate 

the  gallantry  of  the  effort,  cheer  the  brave,  handsome 

ship  defying  the  hurricane,  and,  finally,  see  her  glide 

past,  overcoming  the  roll  of  the  sea  and  the  savage 

wind,  with  the  generous  pleasure  of  true  mariners. 
******* 

We  do  not  know  in  all  naval  records  any  sound 
which  makes  a  finer  music  upon  the  ear  than  that 
cheer  of  the  Trenton's  men.  It  was  distressed  man- 
hood greeting  triumphant  manhood,  the  doomed 
saluting  the  saved  ;  it  was  pluckier  and  more  human 
than  any  cry  ever  raised  upon  the  deck  of  a  victorious 
line-of-battle-ship ;  it  never  can  be  forgotten,  and 
never  must  be  forgotten  by  Englishmen  speaking  of 
Americans. 

Sure  we  are  that  the  echo  of  that  noble  "  Huzza  '' 
must  have  made  every  man  on  board  the  Calliope  long 
to  lay  hold  of  the  Trenton  and  give  her  a  "  cast-out  " 
at  any  cost  beyond  the  dreadful  reef.  It  was,  how- 
ever, all  she  could  do  to  clear  her  American  consort ; 
to  have  towed  behind  even  a  gig  would  have  certainly 
lost  the  battle  she  was  waging  foot  by  foot  against  the 
hurricane.  Her  mighty  engines,  pressed  to  their 
utmost,  saved  her  at  last ;  little  by  little  she  struggled 
out  to  the  sea-gate,  and,  once  free  of  the  reef,  a  bit  of 
headsail  flung  her  bow  to  the  wind,  which  soon  aided 
the  panting  engines  to  drive  her  far  away  to  seaward, 
out  of  all  danger.  But  let  landsmen  realize  how  that 
success  was  won.  Let  them  think  of  the  stokers  toil- 
ing in  the  tossing  engine-room,  urging  the  fierce 
furnaces ;    of    the  engineers   driving  up  the  steam- 


THE  BATTLE.  253 

gauge,  risking  deadly  explosion  to  save  life  and  ship  ; 
of  the  officers  and  crew  on  deck,  hardly  sure  that  the 
vessel  stole  forward  an  inch  upon  the  reef,  hardly  able 
to  see  or  speak  or  stand,  but  doing  their  duty  perfectly 
to  the  Queen,  and  with  breath  and  heart  enough 
to  answer  that  noble  "  God-speed  "  of  the  Yankee  flag- 
ship. 

******* 

Yet  greater  and  more  majestic  than  any  hurricane, 
than  any  death  or  disaster,  is  once  more  proved  to  be 
the  spirit  of  man,  which,  in  a  scene  of  such  dreadful 
tumult  of  nature,  where  strong  vessels  were  helpless 
as  chips,  and  the  stoutest  skill  was  useless,  could  raise 
above  the  whirlwind  that  dauntless  cheer  to  the  Calli- 
ope, the  expression  of  an  immortal  courage — a  cry  of 
such  indomitable  Anglo-Saxon  pluck  as  to  ring  finer 
than  any  which  has  ever  echoed  under  the  flag  of 
victory,  or  in  the  happiest  hours  of  security  and 
success. 


THE  BATTLE. 

By  JoHANN  Christoph  Friedrich  von  Schiller,  Poet.     B. 
1759.  WUrtemberg  ;  d.  1805. 

Translation  by  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 

Heavy  and  solemn, 

A  cloudy  column, 
Through  the  green  plain  they  marching  came  \ 
Measureless  spread,  like  a  table  dread. 
For  the  wild  grim  dice  of  the  iron  game. 


254  THE  BATTLE. 

Looks  are  bent  on  the  shaking  ground, 
Hearts  beat  loud  with  a  knelling  sound  ; 
Swift  by  the  breasts  that  must  bear  the  brunt, 
Gallops  the  major  along  the  front ; — 

"Halt!" 
And  fettered  they  stand  at  the  stark  command, 
And  the  warriors,  silent,  halt  I 

Proud  in  the  blush  of  morning  glowing. 

What  on  the  hill-top  shines  in  flowing? 

"  See  you  the  foeman's  banners  waving  ?" 

*'  We  see  the  foeman's  banners  waving  ! " 

"  God  be  with  ye,  children  and  wife  ! " 

Hark  to  the  music, ^ — the  trump  and  the  fife, — 

How  they  ring  through  the  ranks,  which  they  rouse  to 

the  strife  ! 
Thrilling  they  sound,  with  their  glorious  tone, — 
Thrilling  they  go  through  the  marrow  and  bone  ! 
Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
In  the  life  to  come  that  ive  meet  once  more  ! 

See  the  smoke  how  the  lightning  is  cleaving  asunder  1 
Hark  !  the  guns,  peal  on  peal,  how  they  boom  in  their 

thunder ! 
From  host  to  host,  with  kindling  sound, 
The  shouting  signal  circles  round  ; 
Ay,  shout  it  forth  to  life  or  death, — 
Freer  already  breathes  the  breath  ! 
The  war  is  waging,  slaughter  raging. 
And  heavy  through  the  reeking  pall, 
The  iron  death -dice  fall ! 


THE  BATTLE.  255 

Nearer  they  close, — foes  upon  foes. 

"  Ready  !  " — from  square  to  square  it  goes. 

They  kneel  as  one  man,  from  flank  to  flank. 

And  the  fire  comes  sharp  from  the  foremost  rank. 

Many  a  soldier  to  earth  is  sent. 

Many  a  gap  by  the  balls  is  rent ; 

O'er  the  corse  before  springs  the  hinder  man, 

That  the  line  may  not  fail  to  the  fearless  van. 

To  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  around  and  around, 

Death  whirls  in  its  dance  on  the  bloody  ground. 

God's  sunlight  is  quenched  in  the  fiery  fight, 

Over  the  host  falls  a  brooding  night  ! 

Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er. 

In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more  ! 

The  dead  men  lie  bathed  in  the  weltering  blood, 
And  the  living  are  blent  in  the  slippery  flood, 
And  the  feet  as  they  reeling  and  sliding  go 
Stumble  still  on  the  corpses  that  sleep  below. 
"  What,  Francis  !  " — "  Give  Charlotte  my  last  farewell," 
As  the  dying  man  murmurs,  the  thunders  swell. 
"  I'll  give  " — ''  Oh  God  !  Are  their  guns  so  near  ">.  " 
"  Ho,  comrades  !    yon    volley  !    look    sharp    to    the 

rear  !  "— 
"  I'll  give  thy  Charlotte  thy  last  farewell  ; 
Sleep  soft !' where  death  thickest  descendeth  in  rain, — 
The  friend  thou  forsakest  thy  side  may  regain  !  " 
Hitherward,  thitherward  reels  the  fight ; 
Dark  and  more  darkly  day  glooms  into  night. 
Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more  ! 


2$6  THE  FIRST  PREDICTED  ECLIPSE. 

Hark  to  the  hoofs  that  galloping  go ! 

The  adjutants  flying, — 
The  horsemen  press  hard  on  the  panting  foe ; 
Their  thunder  booms  in  dying — 
Victory  ! 
Terror  has  seized  on  the  dastards  all, 
And  their  colors  fall  ! 

Victory  ! 
Closed  is  the  brunt  of  the  glorious  fight, 
And  the  day  like  a  conqueror  bursts  on  the  night. 
Trumpet  and  fife  swelling  choral  along, 
The  triumph  already  sweeps  marching  in  song. 
F a reiv ell,  fallen  brothers  j  though  this  life  be  o'er, 
There's  another,  in  which  we  shall  meet  you  once  more  I 


THE  FIRST  PREDICTED  ECLIPSE. 

By  Ormsby  Macknight  Mitchel,  Astronomer,  Author, 
Lawyer,  Lecturer  and  Major-General  United  States  Army.  B. 
1809,  Kentucky  ;  d.  1862,  South  Carolina. 

From  his  volume  of  Lectures,  published  in  1863. 

To  predict  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  the  astronomer 
must  sweep  forward,  from  new  moon  to  new  moon, 
until  he  finds  some  new  moon  which  should  occur, 
while  the  moon  was  in  the  act  of  crossing  from  one 
side  to  the  other  of  the  sun's  track.  This  certainly 
was  possible.  He  knew  the  exact  period  from  moon 
to  new  moon,  and  from  one  crossing  of  the  ecliptic  to 
another.  He  finds  the  new  moon  occurring  far  from 
the  sun's  track  ;  he  runs  another  revolution  ;  the 
place  of  the  new  moon  falls  closer  to  the  sun's  path, 


THE  FIRST  PREDICTED  ECLIPSE.  257 

and  the  next  yet  closer,  until,  reaching  forward  with 
piercing  intellectual  vigor,  he  at  last  finds  a  new  moon 
which  occurs  precisely  at  the  computed  time  of  her 
passage  across  the  sun's  track.  Here  he  makes  his 
stand,  and  on  the  day  of  the  occurrence  of  that  new 
moon,  he  announces  to  the  startled  inhabitants  of  the 
world  that  the  sun  shall  expire  in  dark  eclipse.  Bold 
prediction  !  Mysterious  prophet !  with  what  scorn 
must  the  unthinking  world  have  received  this  solemn 
declaration  !  How  slowly  do  the  moons  roll  away, 
and  with  what  intense  anxiety  does  the  stern  philoso- 
pher await  the  coming  of  that  day  which  should  crown 
him  with  victory,  or  dash  him  to  the  ground  in  ruin 
and  disgrace  !  Time  to  him  moves  on  leaden  wings  ; 
day  after  day,  and  at  last  hour  after  hour,  roll  heavily 
away.  The  last  night  is  gone,  the  moon  has  dis- 
appeared from  his  eagle  gaze  in  her  approach  to  the 
sun,  and  the  dawn  of  the  eventful  day  breaks  in 
beauty  on  a  slumbering  world. 

This  daring  man,  stern  in  his  faith,  climbs  alone  to 
his  rocky  home,  and  greets  the  sun  as  he  rises  and 
mounts  the  heavens,  scattering  brightness  and  glory 
in  his  path.  Beneath  him  is  spread  out  the  populous 
city,  already  teeming  with  life  and  activity.  The  sun 
slowly  climbs  the  heavens,  round  and  bright  and  full- 
orbed.  The  lone  tenant  of  the  mountain  top  almost 
begins  to  waver  in  the  sternness  of  his  faith  as  the 
morning  hours  roll  away.  But  the  time  of  his  tri- 
umph, long  delayed, at  length  begins  to  dawn  ;  a  pale 
and  sickly  hue  creeps  over  the  face  of  nature.  The 
sun  has  reached  its  highest  point,  but  his  splendor  is 


2S8  THE  FIRST  PREDICTED  ECLIPSE. 

dimmed,  his  light  is  feeble.  At  last  it  comes  !  Black- 
ness is  eating  away  his  round  disc,  onward  with  slow 
but  steady  pace  the  dark  veil  moves,  blacker  than  a 
thousand  nights,  the  gloom  deepens,  the  ghastly  hue 
of  death  covers  the  universe,  the  last  ray  is  gone,  and 
horror  reigns.  A  wail  of  terror  fills  the  murky  air, 
the  clangor  of  brazen  trumpets  resounds,  an  agony  of 
despair  dashes  the  stricken  millions  to  the  ground, 
while  that  lone  man,  erect  on  his  rocky  summit,  with 
arms  outstretched  to  heaven,  pours  forth  grateful 
gushings  of  his  heart  to  God  who  had  crowned  his 
efforts  with  triumphant  victory.  Search  the  records 
of  our  race,  and  point  me,  if  you  can,  to  a  scene  more 
grand,  more  beautiful.  It  is  to  me  the  proudest 
victory  that  genius  ever  won.  It  was  the  conquering 
of  nature,  of  ignorance,  of  superstition,  of  terror,  all 
at  a  single  blow,  and  that  blow  struck  by  a  single  arm. 
He  who  had  raised  himself  immeasurably  above  his 
race,  who  must  have  been  regarded  by  his  fellows  as 
little  less  than  a  god,  who  had  inscribed  his  fame  on 
the  very  heavens,  and  had  written  it  in  the  sun,  with 
a  "  pen  of  iron,  and  the  point  of  a  diamond,"  even 
this  one  has  perished  from  the  earth — name,  age, 
country,  are  all  swept  into  oblivion,  but  his  proud 
achievement  stands.  The  monument  reared  to  his 
honor  stands,  and  although  the  touch  of  time  has 
effaced  the  lettering  of  his  name,  it  is  powerless,  and 
cannot  destroy  the  fruits  of  his  victory. 


THE  KITTEX  OF   THE  REGIMENT.  259 


THE  KITTEN  OF  THE  REGIMENT. 
By  James  Buckham,  Poet.     B.  1858,  Vermont. 

This  kitten,  sir,  of  the  Colonel's  ?     I'll  tell  the  story. 
We  were  at  Roanoke,  a  month  ago 
Waiting  the  fleet,  and  camped  on  the  hill-side  white. 
One  night,  when  the  sentinels  were  all  at  post, 
We  lay  around  the  fires  and  talked  of  home. 
The  smoke  wreathed  up  into  the  still  blue  sky, 
The  wind  was  whist,  and  all  the  stars  shone  clear  — 
Just  such  a  night  as  sleeps  above  the  hills 
Of  old  New  England  when  the  frosts  are  hoar  — 
Talking  not  loud,  but  soft,  as  soldiers  talk 
After  some  months  o'  the  rolling  drum  and  sight 
Of  blood.     The  sentinel's  sudden  challenge  came : 
"  Halt !     Who  goes  there  ?  " 

We  all  leaped  up  and  harked. 

"Only  Doll  Brewster,  sir;  I've  brought  my  kitty." 
What !  a  child's  voice  ?  —  a  child  at  bayonet's  point  ? 
Shame  !     Let  her  pass. 

Into  the  fire-light  tlien, 
Led  gently  by  two  brave,  kind  soldier-boys. 
Blushing,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  pretty  lip 
Half  curled  to  cry,  hair  loose  and  all  like  gold, 
A  kitten  on  her  breast,  walked  sweet  Doll  Brewster. 

Well,  sir,  the  regiment  came  on  the  run  ; 
And  such  a  wall  of  'em,  all  of  'em  looking  down 
At  a  ten-year  girl,  hair  loose,  lip  curled  to  cry, 
And  a  kitten,  white  as  snow,  curled  under  her  chin. 


26o  THE   KITTEN  OF   THE   REGIMENT. 

"Just  like   my  sister!"   cried  one,  "And    mine!" 
cried  another, 
Till  the  fire  began  to  look  dim  to  all  of  us. 
Then,  sir,  the  Colonel  came,  with  his  sword  a-clanking. 
"  What's  this  ?  "  he  cried,  but  stopped,  and  his  face 

grew  soft. 
"Please,  sir,"  said  Doll,  "I've  brought  you  my  little 
kit. 
It's  all  I  had,  and  Papa  is  sick  and  poor. 
(Mamma,  you  know,  is  dead.)    We're  Northerners,  sir, 
And  brother  died  for  the  flag.     I  loved  him  so  ! 
Please  take  my  kitty  ;  I  want  to  give  something,  sir." 

The  Colonel  ?      He  stooped  and  caught  her  in  his 
arms  — 
Caught  kitten  and  Doll,  and  kissed  'em  both.    He  did ! 
And  every  man  of  us  would  have  done  the  same, 
And  mighty  glad  of  the  chance. 

There  wasn't  an  eye 
Could  hold  its  tears,  nor  cheek  that  had  kept  dry, 
And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Colonel  there, 
A  hundred  of  us  would  have  kissed  the  child. 

****** 

Have  you  a  sister  .-• 
You  know  how  a  man  can  feel  for  a  bit  of  a  child 
With  golden  hair  and  eyes  like  the  heaven's  blue  ; 
And  she'd  a  brother  who  died  for  the  old  flag,  too ! 

****** 


HERVE  KIEL.  261 


HERVE  KIEL. 

By  Robert  Browning,   Poet.     B.  1812,  England ;  d.   1889, 
Venice. 

9|6  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

"  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?"  cries 

Herve  Riel  ; 
"  Are  you  mad,  you   Malouins  ?     Are  you  cowards, 
fools,  or  rogues  ? 
Talk   to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the 

soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve,  where  the  river 
disembogues  ? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold  ?      Is  it  love  the 
lying's  for  ? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored   fast  at  the  foot  of  Soli- 
dor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?     That  were  worse 
than  fifty  Hogues  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  ?     Sirs,  believe  me, 
there's  a  way  !  " 

"  Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Forviidable  clear. 
Make  the  others  follow  mine. 
And  I  lead  them  most  and  least  by  a  passage  1  know 
well. 


262  HERVE  KIEL. 

Right  to  Solidor,  past  Greve, 
And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound  ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 
Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, — 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life  ;    here's  my  head  !  " 
cries  Herve  Riel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  vi^ait  ! 

"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 
Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the   squadron  '  " 
cried  its  chief. 

"  Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  admiral,  in  brief." 

Still  the  north  wind,  by  God's  grace  ! 

See  the  noble  fellow's  face, 

As  the  big  ship  with  a  bound 

Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound. 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide 
sea's  profound  ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock. 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock  ! 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the 
ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief !. 

The  peril,  see,  is  past. 

All  are  harbored  to  the  last. 
And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  "  Anchor  !  "—sure  as 
fate, 

Up  the  English  come,  too  late. 


HERVE  RIEL.  265 

Outburst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell  ! 

Let  France,  let  France's  King, 

Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  !  '' 

What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"HerveRiel!" 

As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes — 

Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 
Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard  ; 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  ; 
You  have  saved  the  king  his  ships, 
You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  ;    or  my  name's  not 
Damfreville." 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  : 
"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say. 
Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 
And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but 
a  run  ? — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have  I  may, — 


264  THE   DOME   OF   THE  REPUBLIC. 

Since  the  others  go  ashore, — 

Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle 

Aurore!  " 

That   he    asked,   and    that    he    got, — nothing 

more. 
***** 

Go  to  Paris  ;  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 

On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  ! 
You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herve 
Riel. 

So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 

Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse  ! 

In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife,  the 
Belle  Aurore  ! 


THE  DOME  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

By  Andrew  Dickson  White,  Educator,  formerly  President  of 
Cornell  University.     B.  1832,  New  York. 

Filippo  Brunelleschi,  a  great  Italian  architect,  was  born  at  Flor- 
ence in  1377.  "  The  dome  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  completed 
by  him,  is  the  largest  in  the  world  in  diameter,  and  served  as  a 
model  to  Michael  Angelo  for  that  of  St.  Peter's  in  Rome." 

It  is  recorded,  in  the  annals  of  the  most  democratic 
republic  of  medieval  Italy,  that,  in  her  pride  of  insti- 
tutions and  arts,  she  decreed  the  building  of  a  cathe- 
dral dome  far  greater  and  more  beautiful  than  any 
the  world  had  ever  seen. 

The  architect,  Arnolfo,  having  laid  the  foundations. 


THE  DOME   OF    THE  REPUBLIC.  265 

died  ;  and  no  one  was  deemed  worthy  to  finish  his 
work.  For  a  century  the  Republic  sought  far  and 
near,  but  an  architect  able  thus  to  give  glory  to  Flor- 
ence and  Italy  could  not  be  found. 

Meanwhile  absurd  projects  were  multiplied.  Some 
proposed  a  dome  supported  by  a  central  pillar  ;  but 
it  was  voted  that  a  dome  which  must  forever  be 
artificially  supported,  is  but  a  poor,  sickly  no-dome. 
Others  proposed  a  dome  of  pumice-stone  ;  but  it  was 
voted,  that  when  a  great  Republic  rears  a  mighty 
monument  for  the  ages,  it  may  not  be  of  pumice-stone. 

Others  still  proposed  to  heap  a  mountain  of  earth, 
to  scatter  coins  therein,  to  round  off  its  summit,  to 
build  the  dome  upon  this  as  a  support,  and  then  to 
admit  swarms  of  beggars,  who  should  carry  away  the 
mountain  of  earth  to  sift  it  for  its  money.  This  was 
voted  impracticable. 

At  last  a  plain  workman,  strong  only  in  sturdy  sense 
ana  a  knowledge  of  his  art,  proposed  to  rear  the  great 
fabric  of  marble,  and  by  appliances  simple  and  natural. 
He  was  set  at  the  work. 

Then  began  the  rage  of  rival  architects.  They 
derided  his  plan,  seduced  his  workmen,  stole  his  tools, 
undermined  the  confidence  of  his  people.  But  still 
that  plain,  strong  man  wrought  on,  ever  steadily,  ever 
earnestly. 

Day  by  diy  the  glorious  creation  rose  ;  day  by  day 
some  stone  -v-ifj  added  to  give  it  height  or  mass ;  day 
by  day  some  shrewd  plan  was  struck  to  give  it  strength 
or  symmetry,  until  it  towered  complete,  a  wondrous 
mc^nument  to  Bruncllcschi,  to  Florence,  and   to  Italy. 


266  ST.    MARTIN  AND    THE  BEGGAR. 

So  in  this  glorious  fabric  of  a  restored  Union.  The 
work  is  mighty  ;  the  chief  architect  is  but  a  plain  man. 
The  envious  cavil,  and  the  malignant  howl.  But,  day 
by  day,  the  structure  rises ;  its  foundations  great 
truths,  far  more  lasting  than  mere  granite  ;  its  pillars 
great  rights,  far  more  beautiful  than  mere  porphyry  ; 
its  roof  great  hopes,  swelling  higher  than  any  dome  of 
bronze  and  gold.  And  from  its  summit  shall  come 
light,  beaming  brighter,  flashing  farther,  than  any  ever 
flung  into  serf's  eyes  from  crown  diamonds  ;  for  it 
shall  reflect  that  light  of  liberty  and  justice  which 
Cometh  from  the  very  throne  of  the  Almighty. 


ST.  MARTIN  AND    THE  BEGGAR. 

By  Margaret  Elizabeth  Sangster,  Poet,  Author.     B.  1838, 
New  York. 

In  the  freezing  cold  and  the  blinding  snow 
Of  a  wintry  eve  in  the  long  ago, 
Folding  his  cloak  o'er  clankmg  mail, 
A  soldier  is  fighting  the  angry  gale 
Inch  by  inch  to  the  camp-fire's  light, 
Star  of  his  longing  this  wintry  night. 

All  in  a  moment  his  path  is  barred  ; 
He  draws  his  sword  as  he  stands  on  guard. 
But  who  is  this  with  a  white,  wan  face, 
And  piteous  hands  upheld  for  grace  ? 
Tenderly  bending,  the  soldier  bold 
Raises  a  beggar  faint  and  cold. 


ST.    MARTIN  AND    THE  BEGGAR.  267 

Famished  he  seems,  and  almost  spent , 
The  rags  that  cover  him  worn  and  rent. 
Crust  nor  coin  can  the  soldier  find  ; 
Never  his  wallet  with  gold  is  lined  ; 
But  his  soul  is  sad  at  the  sight  of  pain  ; 
The  sufferer's  pleading  is  not  in  vain. 

His  mantle  of  fur  is  broad  and  warm, 

Armor  of  proof  against  the  storm  ; 

He  snatches  it  off  without  a  word  ; 

One  downward  pass  of  the  gleaming  sword. 

And  cleft  in  twain  at  his  feet  it  lies, 

And  the  storm  wind  howls  'neath  the  frowning  skies. 

"  Half  for  thee  " — and  with  tender  art 

He  gathers  the  cloak  round  the  beggar's  heart — 

"  And  half  for  me  "  ;  and  with  jocund  song 

In  the  teeth  of  the  tempest  he  strides  along. 

Daring  the  worst  of  the  sleet  and  snow. 

That  brave  young  spirit  so  long  ago. 

Lo  !  as  he  slept  at  midnight's  prime,* 
His  tent  had  the  glory  of  summer  time  ; 
Shining  out  of  a  wondrous  light, 
The  Lord  Christ  beamed  on  his  dazzled  sight. 
"  I  was  the  beggar,"  the  Lord  Christ  said, 
As  he  stood  by  the  soldier's  lowly  bed  ; 
"  Half  of  thy  garment  thou  gavest  Me  ; 
With  the  blessing  of  heaven  I  dower  thee." 
And  Martin  rose  from  the  hallowed  tryst 
Soldier  and  servant  and  knight  of  Christ. 


268  THE   GREATNESS  OF   THE  POET. 


THE  GREATNESS  OF  THE  POET. 

By  George  William  Curtis,  Author,  Orator,  Lecturer,  Edi- 
tor.     B.  1824,  Rhode  Island  ;  lives  in  New  York. 

Part  of  an  address  delivered  October  2,  1880,  at  the  unveiling 
of  the  statue  erected  to  Robert  Burns,  Central  Park,  New  York. 

Until  we  know  why  the  rose  is  sweet,  or  the  dew- 
drop  pure,  or  the  rainbow  beautiful,  we  cannot  know 
why  the  poet  is  the  best  benefactor  of  humanity. 
Whether  because  he  reveals  us  to  ourselves  or  because 
he  touches  the  soul  with  the  fervor  of  divine  aspir- 
ation, whether  because  in  a  world  of  sordid  and  rest- 
less anxiety  he  fills  us  with  serene  joy,  or  puts  into 
rhythmic  and  permanent  form  the  best  thoughts  and 
hopes  of  man — who  shall  say?  How  the  faith  of 
Christendom  has  been  staid  for  centuries  upon  the 
mighty  words  of  the  old  Hebrew  bards  and  prophets, 
and  how  the  vast  and  inexpressible  mystery  of  divine 
love  and  power  and  purpose  has  been  best  breathed 
in  parable  and  poem  ! 

The  poet's  genius  is  an  unconscious  but  sweet  and 
elevating  influence  in  our  national  life.  It  is  not  a 
power  dramatic,  obvious,  imposing,  immediate  like 
that  of  the  statesman,  the  warrior,  and  the  inventor, 
but  it  is  as  deep  and  strong  and  abiding.  The  soldier 
fights  for  his  native  land  but  the  poet  touches  that 
land  with  the  charm  that  makes  it  worth  fighting  for, 
and  fires  the  warrior's  heart  with  the  fierce  energy 
that  makes  his  blow  invincible.  The  statesman 
enlarges  and  orders  liberty  in  the  states,  but  the  poet 
fosters  the  love  of  liberty  in  the  heart  of  the  citizen. 


THE  HIGHLAND  STRANGER.  269 

The  inventor  multiplies  the  facilities  of  life,  but  the 
poet  makes  life  better  worth  living, 

Robert  Burns  transfigured  the  country  of  his  birth 
and  love.  Every  bird  and  flower,  every  hill  and  dale 
and  river  whisper  and  repeat  his  name.  When  he 
died  there  was  not  a  Scotchman  who  was  not  proud 
of  being  a  Scotchman.  But  he  as  all  great  poets,  as 
they  turn  to  music  the  emotions  common  to  humanity, 
pass  from  the  exclusive  love  of  their  own  country  into 
the  reverence  of  the  world. 


THE  HIGHLAND  STRANGER. 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Poet,  Novelist.     B.  1771,    Scotland  ; 
d.  1832. 

Extract  from  Canto  IV.,  "  Lady  of  the  Lake." 

The  shades  of  eve  come  slowly  down, 
The  woods  are  wrapt  in  deeper  brown, 
The  owl  awakens  from  her  dell, 
The  fox  is  heard  upon  the  fell  ; 
Enough  remains  of  glimmering  light 
To  guide  the  wanderer's  steps  aright. 

•I^  T^  TV  -K  H" 

Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turned, 
A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burned. 

Beside  its  embers,  red  and  clear. 

Basked,  in  his  plaid,  a  mountaineer  ; 

And  up  he  sprung  with  sword  in  hand  : 

"  Thy  name  and  purpose  !     Saxon,  stand  !  " — 

"  A  stranger." — "  What  dost  thou  require  ?  " — 


270  THE  HIGHLAND  STRANGER. 

"  Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 

My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost, 

The  gale  has  chilled  my  limbs  with  frost." — 

"  Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderick  ?  "— "  No."— 

"  Thou  darest  not  call  thyself  a  foe  ?  " 

"  I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  band 

He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand." — 
***** 

"  Enough,  enough  ;  sit  down  and  share 
A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare." 

He  gave  him  of  his  Highland  cheer, 

The  hardened  flesh  of  mountain  deer; 

Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid, 

And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid. 

He  tended  him  like  welcome  guest. 

Then  thus  his  farther  speech  addressed  : 

"  Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderic  Dhu 

A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true  ; 

Each  word  against  his  honor  spoke 

Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke  ; 

***** 

But  not  for  clan,  nor  kindred's  cause. 

Will  I  depart  from  honor's  laws. 

To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 

And  stranger  is  a  holy  name. 

Guidance  and  rest,  food  and  fire, 

In  vain  he  never  must  require. 

Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day  ; 

Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way. 

O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and  wardj 


THE  BLACK  HORSE  AND  HIS  RIDER.        27 1 

Till  past  Clan- Alpine's  outmost  guard, 

As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford. 

From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword."— 

"  I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  Heaven, 

As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given  !  " — 

"  Well,  rest  thee  ;  for  the  bittern's  cry 

Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby." 

With  that  he  shook  the  gathered  heath, 

And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath  ; 

And  the  brave  foemen,  side  by  side, 

Lay  peaceful  down  like  brothers  tried, 

And  slept  until  the  dawning  beam 

Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 


THE  BLACK  HORSE  AND  HIS  RIDER.* 

By  George  Lippard,  Author,  Novelist.  B.  1822,  Pennsyl- 
vania; d.  1834. 

It  was  the  7th  of  October,  1777.  Horatio  Gates 
stood  before  his  tent,  gazing  steadfastly  upon  the  two 
armies  now  arrayed  in  order  of  battle.  The  tread  of 
legions  shook  the  ground  ;  from  every  bush  shot  the 
glimmer  of  the  rifle  barrel  ;  on  every  hillside  blazed 
the  sharpened  bayonet.  All  at  once  a  smoke 
arose,  ....  a  thunder  shook  the  ground.  The  play 
of  death  had  begun.  The  two  flags — this  of  the  stars, 
that  of  the  red  cross — tossed  amid  the  smoke  of  battle, 
and  the  earth  throbbed  with  the  pulsations  of  a  mighty 
heart.     Suddenly  Gates  and  his  oflficers  were  startled. 

•  This  piece  has  been  condensed  by  many  omissions  to  briiw  it  within  the 
time  limit. 


272         THE  BLACK  HORSE  AND  HIS  RIDER. 

Along  the  height  on  which  they  stood  came  rushing  a 
rider,  upon  a  black  horse.  Look  !  he  draws  his 
sword  ;  the  sharp  blade  quivers  through  the  air  ;  he 
points  to  the  distant  battle,  and  lo !  he  is  gone  ;  gone 
through  those  clouds,  while  his  shout  echoes  over  the 
plains.  Wherever  the  fight  is  thickest,  there,  through 
intervals  of  cannon-smoke,  you  may  see  riding  madly 
forward  that  strange  soldier,  mounted  on  his  steed 
black  as  death.  Now  you  may  see  him  fighting  in  the 
cannon's  glare,  the  next  moment  he  is  away  off  yonder, 
leading  the  forlorn  hope  up  that  steep  cliff,  or  dash- 
ing like  a  meteor  down  the  long  columns  of  battle. 
Thus  it  was  all  the  day  long.  Wherever  that  black 
horse  and  his  rider  went,  there  followed  victory.  At 
last  toward  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  crisis  of  the 
conflict  came.  That  fortress  yonder,  on  Bremer's 
Heights,  must  be  taken,  or  the  American  cause  is  lost. 
The  cliff  is  too  steep— death  is  too  certain.  The  offi- 
cers cannot  persuade  the  men  to  advance.  The 
Americans  have  lost  the  field.  Even  Morgan,  that 
iron  man  among  iron  men,  leans  on  his  rifle  and 
despairs  of  the  field.  But  look  yonder  !  In  this 
moment,  when  all  is  dismay,  comes  the  black  horse. 
His  rider  lays  his  hand  upon  that  bold  rifleman's 
shoulders,  seizes  his  rifle  and  starts-toward  the  rock. 
And  now  look  !  as  the  black  steed  crashes  up  the 
steep  cliff,  he  quivers  !  he  totters  !  he  falls  !  No  ! 
No  !  still  up  the  cliff,  still  on  toward  the  fortress. 
The  rider  turns.  Come  on,  men  of  Quebec  !  come 
on  !  Already  the  bold  riflemen  are  on  the  rock. 
Now,  red-coat  hirelings^  ^out  your  battlecry  if  you 


THE    SHELL.  273 

can  !  For  look  !  there  in  the  gate  of  the  fortress,  as 
the  smoke  clears  away,  stands  the  black  horse  and  his 
rider.  The  steed  falls  dead,  pierced  by  a  hundred 
balls  ;  but  his  rider,  as  the  British  cry  for  quarter,  lifts 
up  and  shouts  afar  to  Horatio  Gates  waiting  yonder 
in  his  tent,  •'  Saratoga  is  won  !  "  As  that  cry  goes  up 
to  heaven,  he  falls  with  his  leg  shattered  by  a  cannon- 
ball. 

Who  was  the  rider  of  the  black  horse  ?  Do  you  n  )t 
guess  his  name?  Then  bend  down  and  gaze  on  that 
shattered  limb,  and  you  will  see  that  it  bears  the  mark 
of  a  former  wound.  That  wound  was  received  in  the 
storming  of  Quebec.  The  rider  of  the  black  horse 
was — Benedict  Arnold. 


THE  SHELL. 

By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet.     B.  1809,  England. 

See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot. 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl. 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ! 

What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name,. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


2  74  YOUTHFUL    VALOR. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world  ? 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine. 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  ! 


YOUTHFUL  VALOR. 

By  Tyrt^eus,  Poet,  Musician.  B.  about  685  B.  C,  Miletus  : 
time  of  death  uncertain. 

During  the  early  wars  of  the  Spartans  they  were  inspired  to 
valor  and  often  to  victory  by  the  martial  songs  of  Tyrtaeus. 

Translated  by  Thomas  Campbell. 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand, 
In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  landj 
But  oh  !  what  ills  await  the  wretch  that  yields, 
A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country's  fields  ! 
The  mother  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home, 
An  aged  father  at  his  side  shall  roam ; 


YOUTHFUL    VALOR.  275 

His  little  ones  shall  weeping  with  him  go, 
And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe  ; 
While  scorned  and  scowled  upon  by  every  face, 
They  pine  for  food,  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain  of  his  breed  !  dishonoring  manhood's  form, 
All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him  :  affliction's  storm 
Shall  blind  him  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears, 
He  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant's  name. 
And  children,  like  himself,  inured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  fathers'  land, 
And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand, 
To  save  our  children  : — fight  ye  side  by  side, 
And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride, 
Disdaining  fear  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost  ! 

Leave  not  our  sires  to  stem  the  unequal  fight, 

Whose  limbs  are  nerved  no  more  with  buoyant  might ; 

Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  younger  breast 

Permit  the  man  of  age  (a  sight  unblest) 

To  welter  in  the  combat's  foremost  thrust, 

His  hoary  head  dishevell'd  in  the  dust, 

And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare. 

But  youth's  fair  form,  though  fallen,  is  ever  fair, 

And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears, 

The  hero  boy,  that  dies  in  blooming  years  : 

In  man's  regret,  and  woman's  tears  ; 

More  sacred  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far. 

For  having  perished  in  the  front  of  war. 


276  THE  PERMANENCY  OF  EMPIRE. 

THE  PERMANENCY  OF  EMPIRE. 

By  Wendell  Phillips,  Orator.     B.  1811,  Massachusetts;  d. 
1884. 

I  APPEAL  to  History  !  Tell  me,  thou  reverend 
chronicler  of  the  grave,  can  all  the  wealth  of  a  univer- 
sal commerce,  can  all  the  achievements  of  successful 
heroisms,  or  all  the  establishments  of  this  world's  wis- 
dom, secure  to  empire  the  permanency  of  its  posses- 
sions ?  Alas  !  Troy  thought  so  once  ;  yet  the  land 
of  Priam  lives  only  in  song  !  Thebes  thought  so  once; 
yet  her  hundred  gates  have  crumbled,  and  her  very 
tombs  are  but  as  the  dust  they  were  vainly  intended 
to  commemorate.  So  thought  Palmyra — where  is  she  ? 
So  thought  the  countries  of  Demosthenes  and  the 
Spartan  ;  yet  Leonidas  is  trampled  by  the  timid  slave, 
and  Athens  insulted  by  the  servile,  mindless  and  ener- 
vate Ottoman.  In  his  hurried  march,  Time  has  but 
looked  at  their  imagined  immortality  ;  and  all  its 
vanities,  from  the  palace  to  the  tomb,  have,  with  their 
ruins,  erased  the  very  impression  of  his  footsteps. 
The  days  of  their  glory  are  as  if  they  had  never  been ; 
and  the  island  that  was  then  a  speck,  rude  and  neg- 
lected in  the  barren  ocean,  now  rivals  the  ubiquity  of 
their  commerce,  the  glory  of  their  arms,  the  fame  of 
their  philosophy,  the  eloquence  of  their  senate,  and 
the  inspiration  of  their  bards.  Who  shall  say,  then, 
contemplating  the  past,  that  England,  proud  and 
potent  as  she  appears,  may  not,  one  day,  be  what 
Athens  is,  and  the  young  America  yet  soar  to  be  what 
Athens  was  !     Who  shall  say,  that,  when  the  European 


A    MORNING  LANDSCAPE.  277 

column  shall  have  moldered,  and  the  night  of  bar- 
barism obscured  its  very  ruins,  that  mighty  continent 
may  not  emerge  from  the  horizon  to  rule,  for  its  time, 
sovereign  of  the  ascendant  ! 


A  MORNING   LANDSCAPE. 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Poet,  Novelist.  B.  1771,  Scotland  ; 
d.  1832. 

From  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  Canto  IIL  Loch  Katrine, 
Perthshire,  Scotland,  with  its  several  isles  was  the  center  of 
action  of  this  poem. 

The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 

To  purple  changed  Loch  Katrine  blue  ; 

Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 

Just  kissed  the  lake  ;  just  stirred  the  trees  ; 

And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy. 

Trembled,  but  dimpled  not,  for  joy  ; 

The  mountain-shadows  on  her  breast 

Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest  ; 

In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 

Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye. 

The  water-lily  to  the  light 

Her  chalice  reared  of  silver  bright ; 

The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 

Begemmed  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn  ; 

The  gray  mist  left  the  mountain  side  ; 

The  torrent  showed  its  glistening  pride  ; 

Invisible  in  flecked  sky. 

The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry  ; 

The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 


278  COURAGE. 

Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush  ; 
In  answer  cooed  the  cushat  dove 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 


COURAGE. 

By  Horace  Porter,  Author,  formerly  General  United  States 
Army,  Superintendent  Pullman  Palace  Car  Company.  B.  1837, 
Pennsylvania  ;  lives  in  New  Yorlc. 

Courage  is  universally  recognized  as  the  manliest 
of  all  human  attributes  ;  it  nerves  its  possessor  for 
resolute  attempts  and  equips  him  for  putting  forth  his 
supreme  efforts.  Powerful  aristocracies  have  been 
founded  with  courage  as  the  sole  patent  of  nobility  ; 
kings  have  maintained  their  dynasties  with  no  other 
virtue  to  commend  them  to  their  subjects. 

****** 

Napoleon  taught  Frenchmen  that  the  sum  of 
worldly  glory  was  the  reward  gained  by  courage  on 
the  field.  When  La  Tour  d'Auvergne,  accounted  the 
bravest  grenadier  in  the  ranks  of  the  grand  army, 
finally  fell,  pierced  by  the  bullets  of  the  enemies  of 
France,  a  general  order  was  issued  directing  that  his 
name  should  be  kept  on  the  active  list  of  his  regiment, 
that  it  should  be  called  at  every  roll-call,  and  each  time 
a  comrade  should  answer  from  the  ranks,  "  Dead  on 
the  field  of  honor." 

****** 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  case  of  desperate  and 
deliberate  courage  which  the  history  of  modern  war- 


JERUSALEM  BY  MOONLIGHT.  279 

fare  has  furnished  was  witnessed  at  Cold  Harbor. 
The  men  had  been  repeatedly  repulsed  in  assaulting 
earthworks,  had  each  time  lost  heavily,  and  had  be- 
come impressed  with  the  conviction  that  such  attacks 
meant  certain  death.  One  evening,  after  a  dangerous 
assault  had  been  ordered  for  daylight  the  next  morn- 
ing, I  noticed  in  passing  along  the  line  that  many  of 
the  men  had  taken  off  their  coats  and  seemed  engaged 
in  mending  rents  on  the  back.  Upon  close  exami- 
nation I  found  that  they  were  calmly  writing  their 
names  and  home  addresses  on  slips  of  paper  and  pin- 
ning these  slips  upon  the  backs  of  their  coats,  so  that 
their  dead  bodies  might  be  recognized  upon  the  field 
and  their  fate  made  known  to  their  friends  'at  home. 
Never  was  there  a  more  gallant  assault  than  that  made 
by  those  men  the  next  day,  though  their  act  of  the 
night  before  bore  painful  proof  that  they  had  entered 
upon  their  work  without  a  hope  of  surviving.  Such 
courage  is  more  than  heroic  ;  it  is  sublime. 


JERUSALEM   BY   MOONLIGHT. 

By  Benjavin  Disraeli,  Lord  Beaconsfield,  Statesman, 
Orator,  Novelist.     B.  1805,  England  ;  d.  1881. 

This  description  is  contained    in    the   novel  "  Tancred,"  pub 
lished  in  1847. 

The  broad  moon  lingers  on  the  summit  of  Mount 
Olivet,  but  its  beam  has  long  left  the  garden  of  Geth- 
semane  and  the  tomb  of  Absalom,  the  waters  of  Ke- 
dron  and  the  dark  abyss  of  Jehoshaphat.  Full  falls  its 
splendor,   however,   on    the    opposite  city,  vivid   and 


28o  JERUSALEM  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

defined  in  its  silver  blaze.  A  lofty  wall,  with  turrets 
and  towers  and  frequent  gates,  undulates  with  the 
unequal  ground  which  it  covers  as  it  encircles  the  lost 
capital  of  Jehovah.  The  evening  hour  softens  the 
austerity  of  a  mountain  landscape  magnificent  in  out- 
line, however  harsh  and  severe  in  detail  :  and,  while 
it  retains  all  its  sublimity,  removes  much  of  the  sav- 
age sternness  of  the  strange  and  unrivaled  scene.  A 
fortified  city,  almost  surrounded  by  ravines,  and  ris- 
ing in  the  center  of  chains  of  far-spreading  hills, 
occasionally  offering,  through  their  rocky  glens,  the 
gleams  of  a  distant  and  richer  land.  The  moon  has 
sunk  behind  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and  the  stars  in 
the  darker  sky  shine  doubly  bright  over  the  sacred 
city.  The  all-pervading  stillness  is  broken  by  a 
breeze  that  seems  to  have  traveled  over  the  plain  of 
Sharon  from  the  sea.  It  wails  among  the  tombs,  and 
sighs  among  the  cypress  groves.  Who  can  but  be- 
lieve that  at  the  midnight  hour,  from  the  summit  of 
the  Ascension,  the  great  departed  of  Israel  assemble 
to  gaze  upon  the  battlements  of  their  mystic  city  ? 
There  might  be  counted  heroes  and  sages,  who  need 
shrink  from  no  rivalry  with  the  brightest  and  the 
wisest  of  other  lands  ;  the  lawgiver  of  the  time  of  the 
Pharaohs,  whose  laws  are  still  obeyed  ;  the  monarch, 
whose  reign  has  ceased  for  three  thousand  years,  but 
whose  wisdom  is  a  proverb  in  all  nations  of  the  earth  : 
the  teacher,  whose  doctrines  have  modeled  civilized 
Europe,  the  greatest  of    legislators,  the  greatest  of 

administrators  and  the  greatest  of  reformers 

The  last  light    is   extinguished    in   the  village  of 


ODE    TO  DUTY.  281 

Bethany.  The  wailing  breeze  has  become  a  moaning 
wind  ;  a  white  film  spreads  over  the  purple  sky  ;  the 
stars  are  veiled.  The  tower  of  David  merges  into 
obscurity  :  no  longer  glitter  the  minarets  of  the 
Mosque  of  Omar  :  Bethesda's  angelic  waters,  the 
gate  of  Stephen,  the  street  of  sacred  sorrow,  the  hill 
of  Salem,  and  the  heights  of  Scopas  can  no  longer  be 
discerned.  Alone  in  the  increasing  darkness,  while 
the  very  line  of  the  walls  gradually  eludes  the  eye,  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  a  beacon  light. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

By  William  Wordsworth,   Poet.      B.    1770,   England  ;   d. 
1850,  at  Rydal  Mount,  England. 
This  ode  was  written  in  1805. 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 

O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  Hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 


282  ODE    TO  DUTY. 

Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving   arms,  dread    Power !    around 
them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 
***** 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  ; 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live  ! 


C^SAR  RODNEY'S  RIDE.  283 


C^SAR  RODNEY'S  RIDE* 

By  Elbridge  Streeter  Brooks,  Author,  Editor,  Literary 
Adviser  D.  Lothrop  Company.  B.  1846,  Massachusetts  ;  lives  in 
Somerville,  Massachusetts. 

In  that  soft  mid-land  where  the  breezes  bear 
The  north  and  south  on  the  genial  air, 
Through  the  country  of  Kent,  on  affairs  of  state, 
Rode  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

Burly  and  big,  and  bold  and  bluff. 
In  his  three-cornered  hat  and  his  suit  of  snuff, 
A  foe  to.  King  George  and  the  English  state 
Was  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

Into  Dover  village  he  rode  apace. 
And  his  kinsfolk  knew,  from  his  anxious  face, 
It  was  matter  grave  that  had  brought  him  there, 
To  the  counties  three  upon  Delaware. 

"  Money  and  men  we  must  have,"  he  said, 
"  Or  the  Congress  fails  and  our  cause  is  dead. 
Give  us  both  and  the  king  shall  not  work  his  will- 
We  are  men,  since  the  blood  of  Bunker  Hill !  " 

Comes  a  rider  swift  on  a  panting  bay  : 
"  Hollo  Rodney,  ho  !  you  must  save  the  day. 
For  the  Congress  halts  at  a  deed  so  great, 
And  your  vote  alone  may  decide  its  fate !  " 

Answered  Rodney  then  :    "  I  will  ride  with  speed  : 
It  is  Liberty's  stress  ;  it  is  Freedom's  need. 

•  From  St.  Nicholas^  Century  Company. 


284  CMSAR  RODNEY'S  RIDE. 

When  stands  it  ?  "    "  To-night.     Not  a  moment  spare 
But  ride  like  the  wind,  from  the  Delaware." 

"  Ho,  saddle  the  black  !  I've  but  half  a  day, 
And  the  Congress  sits  eighty  miles  away, — 
But  I'll  be  in  time,  if  God  grants  me  grace, 
To  shake  my  fist  in  King  George's  face." 

He  is  up  ;  he  is  off  !  and  the  black  horse  flies 
On  the  northward  road  ere  the  "  God-speed  ! "  dies 
It  is  gallop  and  spur,  as  the  leagues  they  clear, 
And  the  clustering  mile-stones  move  a-rear. 

It  is  two  of  the  clock  ;  and  the  fleet  hoofs  fling 
The  Fieldsboro'  dust  with  a  clang  and  cling. 
It  is  three  ;  and  he  gallops  with  slack  rein  where 
The  road  winds  down  to  the  Delaware. 

Four  ;  and  he  spurs  into  Newcastle  town. 
From  his  panting  steed  he  gets  him  down — 
"  A  fresh  one,  quick  ;  not  a  moment's  wait  I  " 
And  off  speeds  Rodney  the  delegate. 

It  is  five  ;  and  the  beams  of  the  western  sun 
Tinge  the  spires  of  Wilmington,  gold  and  dun  ; 
Six  ;  and  the  dust  of  the  Chester  street 
Flies  back  in  a  cloud  from  his  courser's  feet. 

It  is  seven  ;  the  horse-boat,  broad  of  beam, 
At  the  Schuylkill  ferry  crawls  over  the  stream— 
And  at  seven-fifteen  by  the  Rittenhouse  clock 
He  flings  his  rein  to  the  tavern  Jock. 

The  Congress  is  met  ;  the  debate's  begun, 
And  Liberty  lags  for  the  vote  of  one — 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  285 

When  into  the  Hall,  not  a  moment  late, 
Walks  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

Not  a  moment  late  !  and  that  half-day's  ride 
Forwards  the  world  with  a  mighty  stride  : — 
For  the  Act  was  passed,  ere  the  midnight  stroke 
O'er  the  Quaker  City  its  echoes  woke. 

At  Tyranny's  feet  was  the  gauntlet  flung ; 
"  We  are  free  !  "  all  the  bells  through  the  colonies  rung. 
And  the  sons  of  the  free  may  recall  with  pride 
The  day  of  Delegate  Rodney's  ride. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF   POMPEII. 

By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Novelist,  Statesman.  B. 
1803,  England;  d.  1873. 

"  My  poor  father!  I  am  thy  only  son! — if  I  were  to 
fall—" 

As  the  thought  crossed  him,  the  gladiator  strode  on 
with  a  more  rapid  and  restless  pace,  when  suddenly 
in  an  opposite  street,  he  beheld  the  very  object  of  his 
thoughts.  Leaning  on  his  stick,  his  form  bent  by 
care  and  age,  his  eyes  downcast,  and  his  steps  trem- 
bling, the  gray-haired  Medon  slowly  approached 
towards  the  gladiator.  Lydon  paused  a  moment. 
.  ..."  I  must  shun  him — I  cannot  brook  his  pray- 
ers— his  tears  !  "  ....  He  turned  abruptly  and  fled 
swiftly  in  an  opposite  direction.  He  paused  not  till, 
almost  spent  and  breathless,  he  found  himself  on  the 
summit  of    a  »imall  acclivity,   which  overlooked  the 


286  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

most  gay  and  splendid  part  of  that  miniature  city ; 
and  as  he  there  paused,  and  gazed  along  the  tranquil 
streets  glittering  in  the  rays  of  the  moon  (which  had 
just  arisen,  and  brought  partially  and  picturesquely 
into  light  the  crowd  around  the  amphitheatre  at  a  dis- 
tance, murmuring,  and  swaying  to  and  fro)  the  influ- 
ence of  the  scene  affected  him,  rude  and  unimaginative 
though  his  nature 

Near  at  hand,  the  lights  gleamed  from  a  palace,  in 
which  the  master  now  held  his  revels.  The  doors 
were  open  for  coolness,  and  the  gladiator  beheld  the 
numerous  and  festive  group  gathered  round  the  tables 
in  the  atrium  ;  while  behind  them,  closing  the  long 
vista  of  the  illumined  rooms  beyond,  the  spray  of  the 
distant  fountain  sparkled  in  the  moonbeams.  There, 
the  garlands  wreathed  round  the  columns  of  the 
hall — there,  gleamed  still  and  frequent  the  marble 
statue — there,  amidst  peals  of  jocund  laughter,  rose 
the  music  and  the  lay 

Before  him,  how  serenely  slept  the  starlight  on  that 
lovely  city !  how  breathlessly  its  pillared  streets 
reposed  in  their  security  ! — how  softly  rippled  the 
dark-green  waves  beyond  ! — how  cloudless  spread, 
aloft  and  blue,  the  dreaming  Campanian  skies  !  Yet 
this  was  the  last  night  for  the  gay  Pompeii ! — the 
colony  of  the  hoar  Chaldean  ! — the  fabled  city  of  Her- 
cules ! — the  delight  of  the  voluptuous  Roman  !  Age 
after  age  had  rolled,  indestructive,  unheeded,  over  its 
head;  and  now  the  last  ray  quivered  on  the  dial-plate 
of  its  doom  !  The  gladiator  heard  some  light  steps 
behind — a  group  of  females  were  wending  homeward 


THE  PALMETTO  AND    THE  PINE.  287 

from  their  visit  to  the  amphitheatre.  As  he  turned, 
his  eye  was  arrested  by  a  strange  and  sudden  appari- 
tion. From  the  summit  of  Vesuvius,  darkly  visible  at 
the  distance,  there  shot  a  pale,  meteoric,  livid  light — it 
trembled  an  instant  and  was  gone.  And  at  the  same 
moment  that  his  eye  caught  it,  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
youngest  of   the   women   broke  out    hilariously  and 

shrill  : 

"  Tramp,  tramp!  how  gaily  they  go; 
Ho,  ho!  for  the  morrow's  merry  show  !" 


THE  PALMETTO  AND  THE  PINE. 
By  Manley  H.  Pike. 

There  grows  a  fair  palmetto  in  the  sunny   Southern 

lands  ; 
Upon  the  stern  New  England  hills  a  somber  pine  tree 

stands  ; 
And  each  towers  like  a  monument  above  the  perished 

brave  ; 
A  grave  'neath  the  palmetto — beneath  the  pine  a  grave. 

The  Carolina  widow  comes  this  bright  May  day  to 

spread 
Magnolia  and  jessamine  above  her  soldier  dead. 
And  the  Northern  mother  violets  strews  upon  her  son 

below, — 
Her  only  son,  who  fell  so  many  weary  years  ago. 

Tears  for  the  gallant  Yankee  boy — one  of  Grant's 
heroes  he  ; 


288  THE    TWO    STREAMS  OF  HISTORY. 

Tears  for  the  stalwart  Southern   man — the  man  who 

marched  with  Lee. 
But  love,  and  only  love,  between  the  lonely  ones  who 

twine 
Their  wreaths    'neath   the  palmetto — their  chaplets 

'neath  the  pine. 

Oh,  tried  tree  of   the   Southland  !    from  out   whose 

trunks  were  wrought 
The  ramparts  of  that  glorious  fort  where   Sergeant 

Jasper  fought  ; 
Oh,  true  tree  of  the  Northland  !  whose  pictured  form 

supplied 
The  emblem  for  our  earliest  flag,  that  waved  where 

Warren  died — 

Still  watch  the  dead  you've  watched  so  long,  the  dead 

who  died  so  well ; 
And  matrons  mourn,  as  mourn  you  must,  your  lost 

dear  ones  who  fell  ; 
But  joy  and  peace  and  hope  to  all,  now  North  and 

South  combine 
In  one  grand  whole,  as  one  soil  bears  the  palmetto 

and  the  pine ! 


THE  TWO  STREAMS  OF  HISTORY. 

By  Charles  Lemuel  Thompson,  Clergyman.  B.  1839,  Penn- 
sylvania ;  lives  in  New  York. 

From  an  address  delivered  at  a  meeting  of  the  General  Assem- 
bly of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  in  Philadelphia,  1888. 

Nearly  four  thousand  years  ago  history  parted 
into  two  streams  on  the  plains  of  Asia.     One  of  these 


THE    TWO   STREAMS  OF  HISTORY.  289 

moving  eastward  sank  to  a  stolid  level  in  China,  and 
stagnated  there.  From  this  stagnant  life  a  narrow 
arm  projected  probably  across  the  Sea  of  Kamtchatka 
and  peopled  the  American  Continent.  The  other 
stream  moved  westward  across  Asia,  curved  down  the 
Mediterranean,  then  swept  upward  across  Germany 
and  the  British  Isles,  representing  all  along  the 
world's  higher  civilization,  and  when  the  stream 
of  the  new  life  from  Judean  hills  mingled  with  it, 
expressing  and  moving  on  with  the  power  of  the 
religion  of  Christ.  Finally  this  stream  crossed  the 
Atlantic.  On  these  shores  are  met  again  those  old- 
time  races.  The  conflict  between  lower  and  higher 
witnessed  by  Asia  in  the  dim  twilight  of  earliest 
times  has  been  renewed  along  our  westward  moving 
frontier.  That  conflict  is  nearly  over.  The  American 
Indian,  like  his  kindred  in  northern  Asia,  disappears 
from  the  world's  theater,  leaving  scarce  a  footprint 
behind.  But  another  contest  is  at  our  door.  Ameri- 
can Christianity  on  our  western  coast  faces  the  eastern 
front  of  Asia.  Once  more  it  is  the  grapple  of  Aryan  and 
Turanian,  this  time  not  a  struggle  between  Christian 
nationality  and  wandering  tribes,  but  between  two 
races,  one  having  traveled  the  circuit  of  the  globe  and 
the  other  standing  where  it  stood  when  they  parted, 
entrenched  in  immovable  idolatries,  customs,  and  laws. 
This  is  our  western  front.  We  are  at  the  gateway  of 
a  century.  Behind  us  are  the  years  of  our  fathers — 
around  us  is  the  heritage  they  have  given  us  ;  before 

us  is  the  land  yet  to  be  possessed When  tiie 

aggressive  heroism  of  Roman  legions  yielded  to  splen- 


290  FREDERICKSBURG. 

did  encampments  in  Asia  and  Italy,  the  day  of  their 
glory  went  down  ;  when  the  Church  fails  to  seek  her 
ideal  of  universal  occupation  by  the  distribution  of 
consecrated  enthusiasm,  her  standards  will  trail  in  the 
dust.  Under  a  law  of  dispersion  the  sun  from  his 
throne  illumines  the  world,  and  brings  on  every 
harvest,  as  far  and  wide  he  flings  his  golden  showers. 
Under  that  law  also  the  kingdom  of  grace  must  light 
up  our  land, 

"  Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea." 


FREDERICKSBURG. 

By  William  Jexxings  Bryan,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  i860, 
Ohio  ;    resides  in  Nebraska. 

Fredericksburg  is  not  a  large  city  and  yet  it  is  rich 
in  incidents  of  great  historic  value.  Here  the  women 
of  America  have  reared  a  monument  to  Mary,  the 
mother  of  Washington.  Sometimes  abuse  is  spoken 
against  the  candidates  for  public  office,  but,  my 
friends,  there  is  one  character,  the  mother  —  a  can- 
didate for  the  affections  of  all  mankind  —  against 
whom  no  true  man  ever  uttered  a  word  of  abuse. 
There  is  one  name,  mother,  which  is  never  found 
upon  the  tongue  of  the  slanderer  —  in  her  presence 
all  criticism  is  silenced.  The  painter  has,  with  his 
brush,  transferred  the  landscape  to  the  canvas  with 
such  fidelity  that  the  trees  and  grasses  seem  almost 
real ;  he  has  even  made  the  face  of  a  maiden  seem  in- 


FREDERICKSBURG.  291 

stinct  with  life,  but  there  is  one  picture  so  beautiful 
that  no  painter  has  ever  been  able  to  perfectly  repro- 
duce it,  and  that  is  the  picture  of  the  mother  holding 
in  her  arms  her  babe.  U'ithin  the  shadow  of  this 
monument,  reared  to  the  memory  of  her,  who  in  her 
love  and  loyalty  represents  the  mother  of  each  one  of 
us,  I  bow  in  humble  reverence  to  motherhood. 

I  am  told  that  in  this  county  were  fought  more  bat- 
tles than  in  any  county  of  like  size  in  the  world,  and 
that  upon  the  earth  within  the  limits  of  this  county 
there  fell  more  dead  and  wounded  than  ever  fell  on 
a  similar  space  in  all  the  history  of  the  world.  Here 
opposing  lines  were  drawn  up  face  to  face;  here  op- 
posing armies  met  and  stared  at  each  other  and  then 
sought  to  take  each  other's  lives.  But  all  these 
scenes  have  passed  away,  and  those  who  once  met  in 
deadly  array  now  meet  and  commingle  here  as  friends. 
Here  the  swords  have  been  turned  into  plowshares; 
here  the  spears  have  been  converted  into  pruning 
hooks,  and  people  learn  war  no  more.  Here  the 
bands  on  either  side  once  stirred  up  the  flagging  zeal 
with  notes  that  thrilled  the  hearts  of  men.  These  two 
bands  are  now  component  parts  of  one  great  band, 
and  as  that  band  marches  on  in  the  lead,  playing 
"Yankee  Doodle"  and  "Dixie."  too,  the  war-scarred 
veterans  who  wore  the  blue  and  the  war-scarred  vet- 
erans who  wore  the  gray,  follow,  side  by  side,  each 
vying  with  the  other  in  the  effort  to  make  this  the 
greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  nations  on  God's 
footstool. 


292  THE  PURITANS. 


THE   PURITANS. 

By  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  Statesman,  Orator,  His- 
torian, Poet,  Essayist.     B.  1800,  England  ;  d.  1859,  London. 

This  extract  is  from  an  essay  on  Milton,  published  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  August,  1825. 

The  Puritans  were  the  most  remarkable  body  of 
meri  which  the  world  has  ever  produced.  For  many 
years  after  the  Restoration  they  were  the  theme  of 
unmeasured  invective  and  derision. 

The  ostentatious  simplicity  of  their  dress,  their  sour 
aspect,  their  long  graces,  their  contempt  of  human 
learning  were  indeed  fair  game  for  the  laughers. 
But  it  is  not  from  the  laughers  alone  that  the  phi- 
losophy of  history  is  to  be  learned.  Those  who 
roused  the  people  to  resistance,  who  directed  their 
measures  through  a  long  series  of  eventful  years, 
who  formed,  out  of  the  most  unpromising  materials, 
the  finest  army  Europe  had  ever  seen,  who  trampled 
down  King,  Church,  and  Aristocracy,  and  made  the 
name  of  England  terrible  to  every  nation  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  were  no  vulgar  fanatics.  The  Puritans 
were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar  charac- 
ter from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings 
and  eternal  interests 

They  rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious  hom- 
age which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  wor- 
ship of  the  soul.  Instead  of  catching  occasional 
glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  a  veil,  they  aspired  to 
gaze  full  on  His  intolerable  brightness  and  to  com- 
mune with  Him  face  to  face.     They  recognized  no 


THE  PETRIFIED  FERN.  293 

title  to  superiority  but  His  favor ;  and,  confident  of 
that  favor,  they  despised  all  the  dignities  of  the  world. 

If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philos- 
ophers and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles 
of  God.  If  their  names  were  not  found  in  the  register 
of  heralds,  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life. 
If  their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid 
train  of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had 
charge  over  them.  Their  places  were  houses  not 
made  with  hands  ;  their  diadems  crowns  of  glory 
which  should  never  fade  away.  They  prostrated 
themselves  in  the  dust  before  their  Maker  ;  but  they 
set  their  feet  on  the  neck  of  their  King. 

They  were  half  maddened  by  glorious  or  terrible 
illusions.  But  when  they  took  their  seats  in  the 
council,  or  girt  on  their  swords  for  war,  these  tem- 
pestuous workings  of  the  soul  left  no  perceptible 
trace  behind.  People  who  heard  only  their  groans 
and  whining  hymns  might  laugh,  but  those  had  little 
reason  to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of 
debate  or  on  the  field  of  battle. 


THE  PETRIFIED  FERN. 

By  Mary  Lydia  Bolles  Branch,  Author.     B.    1S40,  Con. 
necticut. 

In  a  green  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew  a  little  fern-leaf,  green  and  slender, 
Veinings  delicate,  and  fibers  tender  ; 

Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low  ; 

Rushes  tail,  and  moss  and  grass  grew  round  it, 


294  THE  PETRIFIED  FERN. 

Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found  it, 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night  and  crowned  it, 
But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that  way. 
Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holiday. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches, 
Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches, 

Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the  plain  : 
Nature  reveled  in  grand  mysteries  ; 
But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these. 
Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and  trees, 
Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet  way, 
No  one  came  to  note  it,  day  by  day. 

Earth,  one  time,  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 

Heaved  the  rocks  and  changed  the  mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean  ; 

Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wood, 
Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft,  moist  clay. 
Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 
Oh,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  day  ! 
Oh,  the  agony,  oh,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost  ! 

Useless  !     Lost !     There  came  a  thoughtful  man 
Searching  Nature's  secrets  far  and  deep  ; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 

He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran, 
Fairy  pencilings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibers  clear  and  fine, 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line  ! 


THE    WONDERS  OF    THE    DAIVN.  295 

THE  WONDERS  OF  THE   DAWN. 

By  Edward  Everett,  Statesman,  Orator,  Author.      B.  1794, 
Massachusetts  ;  d.  1865,  Boston. 

Much  as  we  are  indebted  to  our  observatories  foi 
elevating  our  conceptions  of  the  lieaveniy  bodies,  they 
present  even  to  the  unaided  sight  scenes  of  glory 
which  words  are  too  feeble  to  describe.  I  had  occa- 
sion, a  few  weeks  since,  to  take  the  early  train  from 
Providence  to  Boston  ;  and  for  this  purpose  rose  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Everything  around  was 
wrapped  in  darkness  and  hushed  in  silence,  broken 
only  by  what  seemed  at  that  hour  the  unearthly  clank 
and  rush  of  the  train.  It  was  a  mild,  serene,  midsum- 
mer's night, — the  sky  was  without  a  cloud, — the  winds 
were  whist.  The  moon,  then  in  the  last  quarter,  had 
just  risen,  and  the  stars  shone  with  a  spectral  lustre 
but  little  affected  by  her  presence.  Jupiter,  two 
hours  high,  was  the  herald  of  the  day  ;  the  Pleiades 
just  above  the  horizon  shed  their  sweet  influence  in 
the  east  ;  Lyra  sparkled  near  the  zenith  ;  Andromeda 
veiled  her  newly-discovered  glories  from  the  naked 
eye  in  the  south  ;  the  steady  pointers  far  beneath  the 
pole  looked  meekly  up  from  the  depths  of  the  north 
to  their  sovereign. 

Such  was  the  glorious  spectacle  as  I  entered  the 
train.  As  we  proceeded,  the  timid  approach  of  twi- 
light became  more  perceptible  ;  the  intense  blue  of 
the  sky  began  to  soften  ;  the  smaller  stars,  like  little 
children,  went  first  to  rest  ;  the  sister-beams  of  the 
Pleiades  soon  melted   together  ;    but  tiie  bright  con- 


296  A   RETROSPECT. 

stellations  of  the  west  and  north  remained  unchanged, 
Steadily  the  wondrous  transfiguration  went  on. 
Hands  of  angels  hidden  from  mortal  eyes  shifted  the 
scenery  of  the  heavens  :  the  glories  of  night  dissolved 
into  the  glories  of  the  dawn.  The  blue  sky  now 
turned  more  softly  gray  ;  the  great  watch-stars  shut 
up  their  holy  eyes  ;  the  east  began  to  kindle.  Faint 
streaks  of  purple  soon  blushed  along  the  sky  ;  the 
whole  celestial  concave  was  filled  with  the  inflowing 
tides  of  the  morning  light,  which  came  pouring  down 
from  above  in  one  great  ocean  of  radiance  ;  till  at 
length,  as  we  reached  the  Blue  Hills,  a  flash  of  purple 
fire  blazed  out  from  above  the  horizon  and  turned 
the  dewy  tear-drops  of  flower  and  leaf  into  rubies  and 
diamonds.  In  a  few  seconds,  the  everlasting  gates 
of  the  morning  were  thrown  wide  open,  and  the  lord 
of  day,  arrayed  in  glories  too  severe  for  the  gaze  of 
man,  began  his  state. 


A  RETROSPECT. 

By  Richard  Dudley  Hubbard,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1818, 
Connecticut  ;   d.  1884. 

Address  delivered  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  May  30,  i8'8i. 

And  so,  as  I  fling  back  to  my  mind  the  pictures  of 
the  war,  its  events  take  in  retrospect  the  grandest 
proportions,  imports,  and  dignities.  When  we  were 
on  the  eve  of  the  struggle,  it  was  difficult  to  resolve 
the  problem,  and  to  forecast  the  end  from  the  begin- 
ning,— still  more  so  when  we  were  in  the  hurricane 
of  its  shifting  forces,  tragedies,  and  events.  Little 
by  little   we  discerned  its   approach  and   heard  the 


THE   SOVEREIGNTY  OF    THE  PEOPLE.      297 

hurtle  of  its  coming,  and  not  without  a  shudder  at 
its  awful  possibilities.  We  held  our  breath,  pray- 
ing it  might  pass  from  us,  but  standing  in  our  lot,  if 
come  it  must.  And  when  at  last  it  came,  it  came 
dark,  thick,  and  confused.  In  the  clouds  and  thun- 
derings  and  lightnings  of  the  storm  we  could  only 
see,  by  gleams,  our  own  directions  and  driftings. 
God's  balances,  wherein  we  were  being  weighed, 
seemed  at  times  trembling  to  our  eyes.  We  saw  at 
first  our  armies  hurrying  to  the  field  in  confident,  per- 
haps over-confident  valor  ;  we  saw  them  afterward  in 
rout  and  dismay  at  Bull  Run  ;  victorious  at  New 
Orleans ;  falling  back  from  the  Peninsula  ;  rooted  in 
their  places  at  Antietam  ;  wavering  at  Shiloh  ; 
recoiling  at  Fredericksburg  and  Chancellorsville  ; 
triumphant  at  Gettysburg  ;  wading  in  slaughter 
through  the  Wilderness  ;  staggering  back  in  dreadful 
carnage  at  Cold  Harbor  ;  then  gathering  themselves 
in  a  deadly  coil  on  Richmond  ;  next  hanging  on  the 
flank  of  Lee's  retreating  columns  and  encompassing 
him  in  his  flight  ;  and  finally  crowned  with  victory  at 
Appomatox,  the  Union  saved,  and  peace  restored. 


THE   SOVEREIGNTY  OF   THE   PEOPLE. 

By  Edward  John  Phelps,  Jurist,  Minister  to  England.  B. 
(822,  Vermont  ;  lives  in  New  Haven. 

Address  delivered  February  4,  i8go,  in  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  New  York  City,  during  the  Literary  Exercises  of  the  Cen- 
tenary of  the  Federal  Judiciary. 

The  world  has  seen  empires  and  dynasties  without 
number  based   upon   arbitrary  power.      But   for  the 


298      THE    SOVEREIGNTY   OF    THE   PEOPLE. 

most  part  it  has  seen  them  perish.  They  have  illu- 
minated the  page  of  history,  but  with  the  light  of  the 
comet  and  the  meteor,  not  of  the  stars.  The  civiliza- 
tion they  have  brought  forth  has  been  as  transient  as 
themselves.  Neither  government  nor  civilization  con- 
tained any  element  of  permanence  until  they  came  to 
be  founded  upon  the  principles  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty. 

Magna  Charta  was,  therefore^  the  starting  point  not 
merely  of  free  institutions  but  of  the  only  civilization 
that  ever  did  or  ever  could  survive  political  systems 
and  pass  on  unimpaired  from  the  ruins  of  one  to  the 
construction  of  another.  Its  striking  and  memorable 
language  no  rhetoric  has  been  able-  to  improve,  no 
casuistry  to  obscure.  When  it  broke  upon  the  world 
it  proclaimed  a  new  era,  the  dawning  of  a  better  day 
for  humanity,  in  which  the  rights  of  man  became 
superior  to  government  and  their  protection  the  condi- 
tion of  allegiance.  The  great  thought  matured  with  a 
slow  but  certain  growth.  Battles  enough  were  fought 
for  it,  but  never  in  vain,  until  at  last  it  came  to  be 
established  forever  upon  English  soil  and  among  ttie 
English  race  on  every  soil.  And  the  highest  eulogy 
upon  the  British  Constitution  was  spoken  when  Chat- 
ham said  : 

"  The  poorest  man  may,  in  his  cottage,  bid  defiance 
to  all  the  force  of  the  Crown  ;  it  may  be  frail,  its  roof 
may  shake,  the  wind  may  blow  through  it,  the  storm 
may  enter,  the  rain  may  enter,  but  the  King  of  Eng- 
land cannot  enter.  All  his  forces  dare  not  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  ruined  tenement." 


THE   LIGHTS   OF  LA  IVREA^CE.  299 

But  the  great  orator  couM  go  nofuitlier.  He  could 
not  say  that  the  British  Parliament  might  not  enter  the 
home  of  the  subject,  for  all  the  judges  of  England  are 
powerless  in  the  face  of  an  act  of  Parliament,  what- 
ever it  may  be.  It  was  reserved  for  the  American 
Constitution  to  extend  the  judicial  protection  of  per- 
sonal rights,  not  only  against  the  rulers  of  the  people, 
but  against  the  representatives  of  the  people. 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  LAWRENCE. 

By  Ernest  W.\rburton  Shurtleff,   Poet.     B.  1862,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

The  night's  dark  curtain  trails  the  East 

With  stars  upon  each  somber  fold. 
The  comedy  of  day  has  ceased. 

The  smiles  are  done,  the  tales  are  told. 
A  moment  in  the  dusk  I  stand 

And  look  out  from  my  window  heights, 
Where,  shining  o'er  the  shadowed  land, 

I  see  a  line  of  golden  lights — 
The  lights  of  Lawrence  burning  clear 
That  star  the  night  with  peace  and  cheer. 

How  beautiful  !     How  still  they  are  ! 

Like  jewels  set  in  ebon  shade — 
Each  holding  vigils  like  a  star. 

Each  doing  duty,  beauty-paid. 
For  there  is  duty  in  their  light ; 

No  dream  they  hold  of  being  fair  ; 
They  burn  to  keep  the  city  bright 

And  show  their  glory  unaware — 


300  THE  LIGHTS  OF  LA  WRENCE. 

They  shine  to  lead  the  weary  feet 

That  through  the  city  come  and  go  ; 
Some  shine  on  faces  young  and  sweet, 

And  some  on  faces  touched  with  woe. 
From  lonely  haunts  of  want  and  pain, 

As  well  as  highways  rich  and  wide. 
They  pour  their  beauty  o'er  the  plain 

At  dusk  of  closing  eventide — 
*  *  *  *  » 

I  cannot  see  the  walls  of  stone 

That  through  the  city's  darkness  rise, 
The  spires  that  tower  to  heaven  alone 

To  ring  Time's  knell  amid  the  skies. 
All  these  are  buried  in  the  shade, 

With  all  the  riches  they  may  hold. 
They  lend  no  hope,  no  friendly  aid 

To  lift  the  Autumn  darkness  cold — 
But  Lawrence  lights  are  burning  clear 
And  star  the  night  with  peace  and  cheer. 

The  noblest  lives  that  bless  the  earth 

Are  those  that  thus  reveal  their  light, 
While  lives  that  tower  in  worldly  worth 

Are  hidden  in  the  cold  of  night. 
The  lives  that  lead  the  weary  feet 

That  through  Life's  city  come  and  go, 
That  shine  on  faces  young  and  sweet 

And  faces  touched  with  want  and  woe- 
God  bless  the  lives  that  give  us  cheer, 
Like  lights  of  Lawrence  burning  clear  ! 


DECORATION  DA  Y  ADDRESS  A  T  ARLINGTON.  301 

DECORATION  DAY  ADDRESS  AT 
ARLINGTON. 

(May  30,  1868.) 

3y  James  Abram  Garfield,  Statesman,  President  of  the 
United  States.     B.  1831,  Ohio  ;  d.  1881,  New  Jersey. 

If  silence  is  ever  golden,  it  must  be  here,  beside  the 
graves  of  fifteen  thousand  men,  whose  lives  were  more 
significant  than  speech,  and  whose  death  was  a  poem, 
the  music  of  which  can  never  be  sung.  With  words 
we  make  promises,  plight  faith,  praise  virtue.  Prom- 
ises may  not  be  kept,  plighted  faith  may  be  broken, 
and  vaunted  virtue  be  only  the  cunning  mask  of -vice. 

We  do  not  know  one  promise  these  men  made,  one 
pledge  they  gave,  one  word  they  spoke  :  but  we  do 
know  they  summed  up  and  perfected  by  one  supreme 
act  the  highest  virtue  of  men  and  citizens.  For  love 
of  country  they  accepted  death,  and  thus  resolved  all 
doubts,  and  made  immortal  their  patriotism  and  their 
virtue.  For  the  noblest  man  that  lives  there  still 
remains  a  conflict.  He  must  still  withstand  the  as- 
saults of  time  and  fortune  ;  must  still  be  assailed 
with  temptations  before  which  lofty  natures  have 
lallen.  But  with  these,  the  conflict  ended,  the  victory 
was  won  when  death  stamped  on  them  the  great  seal 
of  heroic  character,  and  closed  a  record  which  years 
can  never  blot. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era  an  imperial 
circus  stood  on  the  summit  of  what  is  now  known  as 
the  Vatican  Mount,  in  Rome.     There  gladiator  slaves 


302  DECORA  TION  DA  Y  ADDRESS  A  T  ARLINGTON. 

died  for  the  sport  of  Rome,  and  wild  beasts  fought 
with  wilder  men.  In  that  arena  a  Galilean  fisherman 
gave  up  his  life,  a  sacrifice  for  his  faith.  No  human 
life  was  ever  so  nobl}'  avenged.  On  that  spot  was 
reared  the  proudest  Christian  temple  ever  built  by 
human  hands.  As  the  traveler  descends  the  Apen- 
nines he  sees  the  dome  of  St,  Peter's  rising  above  the 
desolate  Campagna  and  the  dead  city,  long  before  the 
seven  hills  and  ruined  palaces  appear  to  his  view.  The 
fame  of  the  dead  fisherman  has  outlived  the  glory  of 
the  Eternal  City. 

Seen  from  the  western  slope  of  our  Capitol,  this 
spot  is  not  unlike  the  Vatican  Mount.  A  few  years 
ago  the  soil  beneath  our  feet  was  watered  with  the 
tears  of  slaves.  Yonder  proud  Capitol  awakened 
no  pride  and  inspired  no  hope.  The  face  of  the  god- 
dess was  turned  toward  the  sea  and  not  toward 
them.  But  thanks  be  to  God,  this  arena  of  slavery  is 
a  scene  of  violence  no  longer !  This  will  be  forever 
the  sacred  mountain  of  our  Capitol.  Here  is  our  tem- 
ple. Its  pavement  is  the  sepulchre  of  heroic  hearts  ; 
its  dome,  the  bending  heaven  ;  its  altar  candles,  the 
watching  stars. 


CHARACTER   OF  JUSTICE.  Z^l 

CHARACTER  OF  JUSTICE. 

By  Richard  Brinsley  Butler  Sheridan,  Orator,  Dramatist. 
B.  1751,  Ireland;  d.  1816,  London. 

Warren  Hastings,  Governor-General  of  India,  was  brought 
before  the  House  of  Lords  on  a  motion  for  impeachment  on  ac- 
count of  misrule  in  India.  The  trial  began  February  13,  1788, 
and  lasted  until  1795,  resulting  in  the  acquittal  of  Hastings. 
Sheridan,  one  of  the  managers  of  the  impeachment,  closed  his 
famous  speech  with  the  following  peroration. 

Mr.  Hastings,  in  the  magnificent  paragraph  which 
concludes  this  communication,  says,  "  I  hope  it  will 
not  be  a  departure  from  official  language  to  say,  that 
the  majesty  of  justice  ought  not  to  be  approached 
without  solicitation.  She  ought  not  to  descend  to 
inflame  or  provoke,  but  to  withhold  her  judgment, 
until  she  is  called  on  to  determine."  But,  my  lords, 
do  you,  the  judges  of  this  land,  and  the  expounders 
of  its  rightful  laws,  do  you  approve  of  this  mockery, 
and  call  it  the  character  of  justice,  which  takes  the 
form  of  right  to  excite  wrong?  No,  my  lords,  justice 
is  not  this  halt  and  miserable  object ;  it  is  not  the 
ineffective  bauble  of  an  Indian  pagod  ;  it  is  not  the 
portentous  phantoin  of  despair ;  it  is  not  like  any 
fabled  monster,  formed  in  the  eclipse  of  reason,  and 
found  in  some  unhallowed  grove  of  superstitious  dark- 
ness, and  political  dismay  !  No,  my  lords.  In  the 
happy  reverse  of  all  this,  I  turn  from  the  disgusting 
caricature  to  the  real  image  !  Justice  I  have  now 
before  me,  august  and  pure  !  the  abstract  idea  of  all 
that  would  be  perfect  in  the  spirits  and  the  aspirings 
of  men  !  where  the  mind  rises,  where  the  heart 
expands ;  where  the  countenance  is  ever  placid  and 


304       SOUTH  CAROLINA    AND    THE    UNION. 

benign ;  where  her  favorite  attitude  is  to  stoop  to  the 
unfortunate ;  to  hear  their  cry  and  to  help  them  ;  to 
rescue  and  relieve,  to  succor  and  save;  majestic  from 
its  mercy;  venerable  from  its  utility;  uplifted,  with- 
out pride  ;  firm,  without  obduracy  ;  beneficent  in  each 
preference  ;  lovely,  though  in  her  frown  ! 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  AND  THE  UNION. 

By  Robert  Young  Hayne,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1791, 
South  Carolina;  d.  1839.  Selected  from  a  speech  delivered  in 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States  Jan.  21,  1830.  Hayne  and  Web- 
ster represented  respectively  the  "States  Rights"  and  the  "Con- 
solidation"  view  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

The  great  constitutional  debate,  of  which  this  and  the  selection 
on  page  51  are  a  part,  was  occasioned  by  the  introduction  into  the 
Senate  Dec.  29,  1829,  of  a  resolution,  by  Mr.  Foote  of  Connecti- 
cut, relative  to  "  the  sales  of  the  public  lands."  Hayne  opposed 
the  policy  of  the  government  in  respect  to  the  sales  of  public  lands 
as  "  fatal  to  the  sovereignty  of  the  States."  Webster  replied  on 
the  20th,  attacking  Hayne's  views.  Hayne  made  a  reply  on  the 
next  day,  from  which  this  extract  is  taken. 

The  Senator  from  Massachusetts  has  thought  proper 
to  cast  the  first  stone  ;  and  if  he  shall  find,  according 
to  a  homely  adage,  that  "he  lives  in  a  glass  house," 
on  his  head  be  the  consequences.  The  gentleman  has 
made  a  great  flourish  about  his  fidelity  to  Massachu- 
setts. I  shall  make  no  professions  of  zeal  for  the 
interests  and  honor  of  South  Carolina.  If  there  be 
one  State  in  the  Union,  that  may  challenge  compar- 
ison with  any  other,  for  a  uniform,  zealous,  ardent, 
and  uncalculating  devotion  to  the  Union,  that  State 
is  South  Carolina.  From  the  very  commencement  of 
the  Revolution  up  to  this  hour,  there  is  no  sacrifice, 


SOUTH  CAROLINA   AND    THE    UNION.       305 

however  great,  she  has  not  cheerfully  made,  no  service 
she  has  ever  hesitated  to  perform.  She  has  adhered 
to  you  in  your  prosperity  ;  but  in  your  adversity  she 
has  clung  to  you  with  more  than  filial  affection.  No 
matter  what  was  the  condition  of  her  domestic  affairs, 
though  deprived  of  her  resources,  divided  by  parties, 
or  surrounded  with  difficulties,  the  call  of  the  country 
has  been  to  her  as  the  voice  of  God.  Domestic  dis- 
cord ceased  at  the  sound  ;  every  man  became  at  once 
reconciled  to  his  brethren,  and  the  sons  of  Carolina 
were  all  seen  crowding  together  to  the  temple,  bring- 
ing their  gifts  to  the  altar  of  their  common  country. 

What  was  the  conduct  of  the  South  during  the  Rev- 
olution? I  honor  New  England  for  her  conduct  in 
that  glorious  struggle.  But  great  as  is  the  praise 
which  belongs  to  her,  I  think  at  least  equal  honor  is 
due  the  South.  They  espoused  the  quarrel  of  their 
brethren  with  a  generous  zeal,  which  did  not  suffer 
them  to  stop  to  calculate  their  interest  in  the  dispute. 
Favorites  of  the  mother  country,  possessed  of  neither 
ships  nor  seamen  to  create  a  commercial  rivalship, 
they  might  have  found  in  their  situation  a  guaranty 
that  their  trade  would  be  forever  fostered  and  pro- 
tected by  Great  Britain.  But,  trampling  on  all  con- 
siderations either  of  interest  or  of  safety,  they  rushed 
into  the  conflict,  and,  fighting  for  principle,  periled 
all  in  the  sacred  cause  of  freedom.  Never  were  there 
exhibited  in  the  history  of  the  world  higher  examples 
of  noble  daring,  dreadful  suffering,  and  heroic  endu- 
rance than  by  the  Whigs  of  Carolina  during  the  Revo- 
lution.    The  whole  State,  from  the  mountains  to  the 


3o6  HEROIC  COURAGE. 

sea,  was  overrun  by  an  overwhelming  force  of  the 
enemy.  The  fruits  of  industry  perished  on  the  spot 
where  they  were  produced,  or  were  consumed  by  the 
foe.  The  "plains  of  Carolina"  drank  up  the  most 
precious  blood  of  her  citizens.  Black  and  smoking 
ruins  marked  the  places  which  had  been  the  habita- 
tions of  her  children.  Driven  from  their  homes  into 
the  gloomy  and  almost  impenetrable  swamps,  even 
there  the  spirit  of  liberty  survived,  and  South  Caro- 
lina (sustained  by  the  example  of  her  Sumters  and  her 
Marions)  proved,  by  her  conduct,  that  though  her  soil 
might  be  overrun,  the  spirit  of  her  people  was  invin- 
cible. 


HEROIC    COURAGE. 

By  Phillips  Brooks,  Clergyman,  Bishop  of  the  Protestant  Epis- 
copal Church.     B.  1835,  Massachusetts  ;  d.  1893,  Boston. 

Courage  is  one  and  the  same  thing  everywhere. 
The  firmness  with  which  one  stands  upon  the  hopeless 
deck  before  the  doomed  ship  goes  down,  the  persis- 
tency with  which  a  man  claims  that  the  right  is  best 
whatever  voices  clamor  for  the  wrong,  the  intelligence 
with  which  you  think  your  own  thought  straight  through 
the  confusion  of  other  thinking  men,  the  independence 
of  the  conscientious  politician,  the  delight  of  the  writer 
in  doing  his  own  work,  of  the  reader  in  forming  his  own 
judgments,  —  they  are  all  at  their  root  one  and  the  same 
thing.  One  gracious  and  another  stern,  they  are  all 
made  up,  like  the  black  coal  and  the  sparkling  dia- 
mond, of  the  same  constituents. 


HEROIC  COURAGE.  307 

Recklessness  is  no  part  of  courage.  When  Crom- 
well and  his  men  gave  the  sublime  picture  of  heroic 
courage  which  illuminates  English  history,  it  was  not 
that  they  undervalued  the  enormous  strength  of  what 
they  fought  against ;  it  was  that  they  saw  righteousness 
and  freedom  shining  out  beyond,  and  moved  toward 
their  fascinating  presence  irresistibly.  Courage,  like 
every  other  good  thing,  must  be  positive,  not  negative. 

Self-consciousness  is  at  the  root  of  every  cowardice. 
To  think  about  one's  self  is  death  to  real  thought  about 
any  noble  thing.  Let  me  quote  you  a  famous  old  story 
which  seems  a  parable :  "  The  beautiful  Lady  Diana 
Rich,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Holland,  as  she  was 
walking  in  the  garden  at  Kensington  before  dinner, 
met  with  her  own  apparition,  habit,  and  everything,  as 
in  a  looking-glass.  About  a  month  after,  she  died  of 
the  smallpox.  And  'tis  said  that  her  sister,  the  Lady 
Isabella,  saw  the  like  of  herself  also  before  she  died. 
A  third  sister,  Mary,  was  married  to  the  first  Earl  of 
Breadalbane,  and  it  is  recorded  that  she  also,  not  long 
after  her  marriage,  had  some  such  warning  of  her  ap- 
proaching dissolution."  Such  is  the  old  tradition  of 
the  house  of  Holland.  Is  it  not  a  parable  ?  Does  not 
he  who  sees  himself  die  ?  Does  not  the  mind  that 
dwells  upon  itself  lose  just  that  fine  and  lofty  power  of 
being  mastered  by  a  principle  ?  The  most  courageous 
men  I  ever  knew,  if  they  were  marked  by  any  one  thing, 
were  marked  by  this;  that  they  forgot  themselves,  that 
they  were  free  from  self-consciousness.  So  no  clinging 
garments  of  their  selfhood  hindered  them  in  running 
to  the  goal. 


3o8  THE  PRESENT  AGE. 

And  there  is  one  thing  more,  which  is  simplicity. 
The  elaborateness  of  life  makes  cowards  of  us.  It  is 
not  the  bigness  of  the  sea,  but  the  many  mouths  with 
which  it  mocks  his  feebleness,  that  makes  the  strong 
swimmer  grow  afraid  and  sink.  We  want  to  find  some 
one  thing  which  we  are  sure  of,  and  tie  our  lives  to 
that,  and  stand  strong  on  it  to  buffet  off  our  fears. 
When  Hannibal  was  besieging  Rome,  some  man  in  the 
besieged  city  gave  courage  to  the  rest  by  purchasing 
for  a  large  sum  the  plot  of  ground  outside  the  walls  on 
which  the  tent  of  the  invading  general  was  pitched.  It 
was  a  brave  deed.  He  believed  in  Rome.  That  one 
thing  he  was  sure  of.  With  dogged  obstinacy  he  be- 
lieved that  Rome  would  conquer.  Some  one  sure  thing 
made  sure  of  early  in  our  life,  kept  clear  through  all 
obscurity  —  that  is  what  keeps  life  simple ;  that  is  what 
keeps  it  fresh  and  never  lets  its  bravery  go  out. 


THE  PRESENT  AGE. 

By  Victor  Hugo,  Poet,  Novelist.     B.  1802,  France;  d.  1885. 
From    "Napoleon  Le    Petit,"  a   political  pamphlet   aimed  at 
Napoleon  III. 

Let  us  proclaim  it  firmly,  proclaim  it  even  in  fall 
and  in  defeat,  this  age  is  the  grandest  of  all  ages; 
and  do  you  know  wherefore  ?  Because  it  is  the  most 
benignant.  This  age  enfranchises  the  slave  in  Amer- 
ica, ....  extinguishes  in  Europe  the  last  brands 
of  the  stake,  civilizes  Turkey,  penetrates  the  Koran 


THE  PRESENT  AGE.  3^9 

with  the  Gospel,  dignifies  woman,  and  subordinates 
the  right  of  the  strongest  to  the  right  of  the  most 
just. 

This  age  proclaims  the  sovereignty  of  the  citizen, 
and  the  inviolabiUty  of  life  ;  it  crowns  the  people  and 
consecrates  man. 

In  art  it  possesses  every  kind  of  genius  ;  .  .  .  . 
majesty,  grace,  power,  figure,  splendor,  depth,  color, 
form  and  style.  In  science  it  works  all  miracles  ; 
....  it  makes  a  horse  out  of  steam,  a  laborer  out  of 
the  voltaic  pile,  a  courier  out  of  the  electric  fluid, 
and  a  painter  of  the  sun  ;  it  opens  upon  the  two 
infinites  those  two  windows,  the  telescope  on  the 
infinitely  great,  the  microscope  on  the  infinitely  little, 
and  it  finds  in  the  first  abyss  the  stars  of  heaven,  and 
in  the  second  abyss  the  insects  which  prove  the  exist- 
ence of  a  God.  .... 

Man  no  longer  crawls  upon  the  earth,  he  escapes 
from  it ;  civilization  takes  to  itself  the  wings  of  birds, 
and  flies  and  whirls  and  alights  joyously  on  all  parts 
of  the  globe  at  once  ;  the  brotherhood  of  nations 
crosses  the  bounds  of  space  and  mingles  in  the  eternal 
blue. 


3IO    THE  TEMPER  AND  AIM  OF  THE   SCHOLAR. 

THE    TEMPER   AND    AIM    OF    THE 
SCHOLAR. 

By  William  Ewart  Gladstone,  Statesman.  Orator,  Author, 

B.  1809,  England. 

This  extract  forms  a  part  of  an  "  Inaugural  Address  on  the 
Work  of  Universities,"  delivered  :n  the  presence  of  the  Principal, 
Professors  and  Students  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  April  16, 
i860. 

But  more  important  than  the  quest  of  professional 
knowledge,  more  vital  than  the  most  effective  intel- 
lectual training,  is  the  reinaining  question  of  the 
temper  and  aim  with  which  the  youth  prosecutes  his 
work. 

Let  me  remind  you  how  Sir  Robert  Peel,  choosing 
from  his  quiver  with  a  congenial  forethought  that 
shaft  which  was  most  likely  to  strike  home,  averred 
before  the  same  academic  audience  what  may  as 
safely  be  declared  to  you,  that  "  there  is  a  presump- 
tion amounting  almost  to  certainty,  that  if  any  one  of 
you  will  determine  to  be  eminent  in  whatever  profes- 
sion you  may  choose,  and  will  act  with  unvarying 
steadiness  in  pursuance  of  that  determination,  you 
will,  if  health  and  strength  be  given  to  you,  infallibly 
succeed." 

The  mountain  tops  of  Scotland  behold  on  every 
side  of  them  the  witness,  and  many  a  one  of  what 
were  once  her  morasses  and  her  moorlands,  now 
blossoming  as  the  rose,  carries  on  its  face  the  proof, 
how  truly  it  is  in  man  and  not  in  his  circumstances 
that  the  secret  of  his  destiny  resides.     For  most  of 


THE   TEMPER  AND  AIM  OF  THE    SCHOLAR.    311 

you  that  destiny  will  take  its  final  bent  toward  evil 
or  toward  good,  not  from  the  information  you  imbibe, 
but  from  the  habits  of  mind,  thought,  and  life  that 
you  shall  acquire,  during  your  academical  career. 
Could  you  with  the  bodily  eye  watch  the  moments  of 
it  as  they  fly,  you  would  see  them  all  pass  by  you,  as 
the  bee  that  has  rifled  the  heather  bears  its  honey 
through  the  air,  charged  with  the  promise,  or  it  may 
be  with  the  menace,  of  the  future.  In  many  things  it 
is  wise  to  believe  before  experience  ;  to  believe,  until 
you  may  know  ;  and  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  thrift  of  time  will  repay  you  in  after  life  with  an 
usury  of  profit  beyond  your  most  sanguine  dreams, 
and  that  the  waste  of  it  will  make  you  dwindle,  alike 
in  intellectual  and  in  moral  stature,  beneath  your 
darkest  reckonings. 

I  am  Scotchman  enough  to  know  that  among  you 
there  are  always  many  who  are  already,  even  in  their 
tender  years,  fighting  with  a  mature  and  manful  cour- 
age the  battle  of  life.  When  these  feel  themselves 
lonely  amidst  the  crowd  ;  when  they  are  for  a  moment 
disheartened  by  that  Difficulty  which  is  the  rude  and 
rocking  cradle  of  every  kind  of  excellence  ;  when  they 
are  conscious  of  the  pinch  of  poverty  and  self-denial ; 
let  them  be  conscious,  too,  that  a  sleepless  Eye  is 
watching  them  from  above,  that  their  honest  efforts 
are  assisted,  their  humble  prayers  are  heard,  and  all 
things  are  working  together  for  their  good.  Is  not 
this  the  life  of  faith,  which  walks  by  your  side  from 
your  rising  in  the  morning  to  your  lying  down  at 
night;    which  lights  up  for  you  the  cheerless  world, 


3 1 2  OP  FOR  TUN  IT  Y. 

and  transfigures  and  glorifies  all  that  you  encounter, 
whatever  be  its  outward  form,  with  hues  brought 
down  from  heaven  ? 


OPPORTUNITY. 

By   Edward   Rowland  Sill,  Poet,  Professor,   Editor.      B. 
1841,  Connecticut  ;  d.  1887,  Oiiio. 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream  : — 

There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain  ; 

And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 

A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 

Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.     A  prince's  banner 

Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel — 

That  blue  blade  that  the  King's  son  bears, — but  this 

Blunt  thing  !  " — he  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his  hand. 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 

Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 

A.nd  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 

Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 

<\.nd  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


SUPREME  COURT  AND  THE   CONSTITUTION.    S^S 

THE  SUPREME   COURT  AND  THE 
CONSTITUTION. 

By  Henry  Hitchcock,  Lawyer,  Professor.  B.  1829,  Ala- 
bama ;  lives  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri. 

Extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  the  Centennial  of  the 
United  States  Supreme  Court,  held  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  New  York  City,  February  4,  1890. 

The  true  power  of  the  court  has  resided,  and  must 
ever  dwell,  in  the  sincere  respect  and  unbought  con- 
fidence of  the  people  of  the  United  States  ;  a  people 
conscious  that  with  themselves  still  rest  the  form  and 
destiny  of  their  free  institutions,  and  that  upon  their 
reverence  for  the  sanctions  of  law  the  safety  and  en- 
durance of  those  institutions  depend. 

Reviewing,  at  the  century's  close,  the  exercise  of 
those  powers,  with  what  patriotic  pride,  with  what 
reverent  thankfulness  to  the  Supreme  Ruler  of  nations, 
may  we  not  justly  regard,  in  either  view  of  its  juris- 
diction, this  most  august  of  human  tribunals  !  In  one 
aspect,  we  contemplate  the  vast  conflicting  interests, 
of  private  and  public  concern,  whose  adjustment  has 
been  demanded  by  the  unparalleled  growth  and  devel- 
opment of  a  great  people,  and  the  still  graver  contro- 
versies among  powerful  States,  such  as  elsewhere 
drain  the  life-blood  and  make  desolate  the  homes  of 
nations  ;  alike  peacefully  determined  by  those  judg- 
ments, pronounced  by  illustrious  men,  the  records  of 
which  are  more  glorious  than  the  blazonry  of  battle- 
flags,  since  upon  them  are  inscribed  the  bloodless 
victories  of  peace,  nobler  than  all  the  triumphs  of  war. 


314  THE  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  "  B." 

In  the  other,  the  imagination  pictures  that  impressive 
spectacle,  the  unbroken  procession,  through  all  those 
years,  of  the  suitors  who  have  come  before  its  bar, — 
suitors,  not  suppliants,  of  every  class  and  race  and 
rank,  the  citizen,  the  friendless  alien  and  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  proudest  State,  for  whose  equal  pro- 
tection that  sublime  purpose,  "  to  establish  justice,"  is 
declared. 

Such  are  the  judicial  powers  in  whose  pure  and 
faithful  exercise  is  reflected  and  fulfilled, — so  far  as 
mortal  man  may  fulfill  the  perfect  ordinances  of 
Heaven, — that  divine  and  eternal  law,  "  whose  seat  is 
the  bosom  of  God,  whose  voice  is  the  harmony  of  the 
world." 


THE  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  "  B." 

By  Frank  H.  Gassaway,  Poet.     Lives  in  San  Francisco,  Cali- 
fornia. 

South  Mountain  towered  upon  our  right, 

Far  off  the  river  lay, 
And  over  on  the  wooded  height 

We  held  our  lines  at  bay. 

At  last  the  muttering  guns  were  still, 

The  day  died  slow  and  wan. 
At  last  the  gunners'  pipes  did  fill, 

The  sergeant's. yarns  began. 

When,  as  the  wind  a  moment  blew 
Aside  the  fragrant  flood, 


THE   PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  "  B."  3^5 

Our  brier-woods  raised,  within  our  view 
A  little  maiden  stood. 

A  tiny  tot  of  six  or  seven, 

From  fireside  fresh  she  seemed, 
(Of  such  a  little  one  in  heaven 

One  soldier  often  dreamed). 

And,  as  we  stared,  her  little  hand 

Went  to  her  curly  head 
In  grave  salute  :  "  And  who  are  you  ?  " 

At  length  the  sergeant  said. 

"  And  Where's  your  home  ? "  he  growled  again. 

She  lisped  out,  "  Who  is  me  ? 
Why,  don't  you  know  ?     I'm  little  Jane, 

The  pride  of  Battery  'B.' 

"  My  home  ?  Why,  that  was  burned  away, 

And  pa  and  ma  are  dead, 
And  so  I  ride  the  guns  all  day 

Along  with  Sergeant  Ned. 

"  And  I've  a  drum  that's  not  a  toy, 

A  cap  with  feathers,  too, 
And  I  march  beside  the  drummer  boy 

On  Sundays  at  review  ; 

"  But  now  our  'bacca's  all  give  out. 

The  men  can't  have  their  smoke. 
And  so  they're  cross — why,  even  Ned 

Wont  play  with  me  and  joke. 


3i6  THE  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  "  B. 

"And  the  big  Colonel  said,  to-day — 

I  hate  to  hear  him  swear — 
He'd  give  a  leg  for  a  good  pipe 

Like  the  Yank  had  over  there. 

"  And  so  I  thought  when  beat  the  drum, 
And  the  big  guns  were  still, 

I'd  creep  beneath  the  tent  and  come 
Out  here  across  the  hill, 

"  And  beg,  good  Mister  Yankee  men, 

You  give  me  some  Lone  Jack, 

Please  do, — when  we  get  some  again 

I'll  surely  bring  it  back." 

***** 

We  brimmed  her  tiny  apron  o'er. 
You  should  have  heard  her  laugh 

As  each  man  from  his  scanty  store 
Shook  out  a  generous  half. 

To  kiss  the  little  mouth  stooped  down 

A  score  of  grimy  men. 
Until  the  sergeant's  husky  voice 

Said  "  'Tention,  squad  !  "—and  then 

We  gave  her  escort,  till  good-night 

The  pretty  waif  we  bid, 
And  watched  her  toddle  out  of  sight— 

Or  else  'twas  tears  that  hid 

Her  tiny  form — nor  turned  about 
A  man,  nor  spoke  a  word. 


THE  MARBLE   QUEEN.  317 

Till  after  awhile  a  far,  hoarse  shout 
Upon  the  wind  we  heard. 

We  sent  it  back,  then  cast  sad  eyes 

Upon  the  scene  around. 
A  baby's  hand  had  touched  the  ties 

That  brothers  once  had  bound. 

That's  all, — save  when  the  dawn  awoke 

Again  the  work  of  hell, 
And  through  the  sullen  clouds  of  smoke 

The  screaming  missiles  fell, 

Our  General  often  rubbed  his  glass, 

And  marveled  much  to  see 
Not  a  single  shell  that  whole  day  fell 

In  the  camp  of  Battery  "  B." 


THE    MARBLE   QUEEN. 

By  Sarah  Chauncey  Woolsey  (Susan  Coolidge),  Poet.     B. 
I.S35.  Ohio  ;  lives  in  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

Near  the  stately  German  palace, 

Amid  the  deep  park-green. 
In  a  hushed  and  guarded  silence 

There  sleeps  the  marble  queen. 

More  beautiful  than  life  can  be 

She  lies  in  deepest  rest. 
The  fair  hands  folded  quietly 

Upon  her  moveless  breast. 


3i8  THE  MARBLE   QUEEN. 

There  is  a  smile  upon  tier  lips, 

The  cheeks  are  snowy  fair, 
Half-shows  the  happy  dimple 

That  one  time  nestled  there. 

They  made  her  young  and  lovely ; 

The  sculptor  would  not  trace 
A  single  line  of  pain  or  tears 

Upon  the  sweet,  sweet  face. 

But  those  who  loved  her  dearest, 
Knew  that  she  died  of  grief, 

With  a  broken-hearted  prayer  to  Heaven 
For  her  dear  land's  relief  ; 

They  knew  how  long  and  vainly 

She  strove  against  the  tide 
Which  swept  and  ruined  Europe 

To  swell  one  despot's  pride — 

And  remembered  her  appeal  to  God, 

To  justice  soon  or  late 
As  every  inch  a  queen  she  stood. 

Shorn  of  her  lands  and  state. 

Her  husband,  gentler  than  herself, 
Soon  tired  of  earth  and  died  ; 

And  they  carved  his  image  like  her  own 
And  laid  it  by  her  side. 

But  her  young  son,  of  sterner  stuff, 
Had  his  mother's  heart  and  brow. 

And  he  stood  beside  the  marble  form 
And  thus  he  made  his  vow  : 


THE  MARBLE   QUEEN.  319 

"  Mother  beloved,  they  killed  thee, 

And  I  swear  this  unto  thee, 
If  I  ever  live  to  be  a  man 

Your  wrong  shall  righted  be." 

He  made  the  vow  in  boyhood. 

His  locks  were  long  and  fair, 
And  he  kept  the  vow  an  aged  King 

With  frost  upon  his  hair. 

He  kept  it  on  the  awful  day 

When  Paris,  pale  with  hate, 
Watched  the  helmet-spikes  of  Germany 

Pour  through  her  hard-won  gate. 

When  the  gray-bearded  King  rode  in, 

His  hand  upon  his  sword, 
He  rose  up  in  his  stirrups 

And  he  uttered  one  stern  word. 

"  My  mother  is  avenged,"  he  cried  ; 

And  his  generals  caught  the  cry, 
And  the  vision  of  the  fair  dead  queen 

Flashed  before  every  eye. 

Now  while  the  cannon  thundered 

And  the  bells  made  answer  fine, 
"  Louisa  for  the  Fatherland  !  " 

Rang  through  the  German  line. 

Rest  sweetly,  Genius  of  thy  Land  ! 

Full  sixty  years  have  past, 
But  thy  boy.  thy  gray-haired  Emperor, 

Has  kept  his  word  at  last. 


32 o  ii/E  REPUBLIC'S  DUTY. 


THE  REPUBLIC'S  DUTY. 

By  William  McKinley,  Statesman,  President  of  the  United 
States.     B.    1843,  Niles,  Ohio. 

Selected  from  a  speech  delivered  at  the  Atlanta  Peace  Jubilee, 
December  16,  1898,  the  second  day  of  the  celebration.  During 
the  President's  seven-days'  trip  in  the  South,  of  which  his  visit  to 
the  Peace  Jubilee  at  Atlanta,  Georgia,  was  a  feature,  he  aroused 
great  enthusiasm  by  his  patriotic  addresses.  The  address  from 
which  the  following  selection  is  made  was  delivered  to  an  audience 
of  ten  thousand  people  in  the  Auditorium  at  Atlanta. 

"  Under  hostile  fire,  on  a  foreign  soil,  fighting  in  a 
common  cause,  the  memory  of  old  disagreements  has 
faded  into  history.  From  camp  and  campaign  there 
comes  the  magic  healing  which  has  closed  ancient 
wounds  and  effaced  their  scars.  For  this  result  every 
American  patriot  will  forever  rejoice.  It  is  no  small 
indemnity  for  the  cost  of  the  war.    • 

"  This  government  has  proved  itself  invincible  in  the 
recent  war,  and  out  of  it  has  come  a  nation  which  will 
remain  indivisible  forevermore.  No  worthier  contribu- 
tions have  been  made  in  patriotism  and  in  men  than 
by  the  people  of  these  Southern  States.  When  at  last 
the  opportunity  came,  they  were  eager  to  meet  it,  and 
with  promptness  responded  to  the  call  of  country. 
Intrusted  with  the  able  leadership  of  men  dear  to  them, 
who  had  marched  with  their  fathers  under  another  flag, 
now  fighting  under  the  old  flag  again,  they  have  glori- 
ously helped  to  defend  its  spotless  folds  and  added 
new  luster  to  its  shining  stars. 

"That  flag  has  been  planted  in  two  hemispheres, 
and  there  it  remains,  the  symbol  of  liberty  and  law,  of 
peace  and  progress.      Who  will  withdraw  it  from  the 


THE  REPUBLIC'S  DUTY.  321 

people  over  whom  it  floats  in  protecting  folds  ?     Who 
will  haul  it  down  ? 

"The  victory  we  celebrate  is  not  that  of  a  ruler,  a 
president,  or  a  congress,  but  of  the  people.  An  army 
whose  valor  we  admire  and  a  navy  whose  achieve- 
ments we  applaud  were  not  assembled  by  draft  or 
conscription,  but  from  voluntary  enlistment.  The 
heroes  came  from  civil  as  well  as  military  life. 
Trained  and  untrained  soldiers  wrought  our  triumphs. 

"The  peace  we  have  won  is  not  a  selfish  truce  of 
arms,  but  one  whose  conditions  presage  good  to 
humanity. 

"  We  will  have  our  difficulties  and  our  embarrass- 
ments. They  follow  all  victories  and  accompany  all 
great  responsibilities.  They  are  inseparable  from  every 
great  movement  or  reform.  But  American  capacity 
has  triumphed  over  all  in  the  past. 

"The  republic  is  to-day  larger,  stronger,  and  better 
prepared  than  ever  before  for  wise  and  profitable  de- 
velopment in  new  directions  and  along  new  lines,  and 
if  the  minds  of  our  own  people  are  still  disturbed  by 
perplexed  and  anxious  doubts,  in  which  all  of  us  have 
shared,  and  still  share,  the  genius  of  American  civili- 
zation will,  I  believe,  be  found  both  original  and  crea- 
tive and  capable  of  subserving  all  the  great  interests 
which  shall  be  confided  to  our  keeping.  Forever  in 
the  right,  following  the  best  impulses  and  clinging  to 
high  purposes,  using  properly  and  within  right  limits 
our  power  and  opportunities,  honorable  reward  must 
inevitably  follow.  The  outcome  cannot  be  in  doubt. 
We  could    have  avoided    all    the   difficulties    that    lie 


322  THE  REPUBLIC'S  DUTY. 

across  the  pathway  of  the  nation  if  a  few  months  ago 
we  had  coldly  ignored  the  piteous  appeals  of  the  starv- 
ing and  oppressed  inhabitants  of  Cuba.  If  we  had 
blinded  ourselves  to  the  conditions  so  near  our  shores, 
and  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  our  suffering  neighbors, 
the  issue  of  territorial  expansion  in  the  Antilles  and 
the  East  Indies  would  not  have  been  raised.  But  could 
we  have  justified  such  a  course  ?  Is  there  any  one 
who  would  now  declare  another  to  have  been  the  bet- 
ter course  ?  With  less  humanity  and  less  courage  on 
our  part,  the  Spanish  flag,  instead  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  would  still  be  floating  at  Cavite,  at  Ponce,  and 
at  Santiago,  and  a  chance  in  the  race  of  life  would  be 
wanting  to  millions  of  human  beings  who  to-day  call 
this  nation  noble,  and  who  I  trust  will  live  to  call  it 
blessed. 

"Thus  far  we  have  done  our  supreme  duty.  Shall 
we  now,  when  the  victory  won  in  war  is  written  in  the 
treaty  of  peace,  and  the  civilized  world  applauds  and 
waits  in  expectations,  turn  timidly  away  from  the 
duties  imposed  upon  the  country  by  its  own  great 
deeds  ?  And  when  the  mists  fade  away,  and  we  see 
with  clearer  vision,  may  we  not  go  forth  rejoicing  in  a 
strength  which  has  been  employed  solely  for  humanity, 
and  always  been  tempered  with  justice  and  mercy, 
confident  of  our  ability  to  meet  the  exigencies  which 
await  us,  because  confident  that  our  course  is  one  of 
duty  and  our  cause  that  of  right  ?" 


INDEPENDENCE  BELL.  323 

LIBERTY. 

By  Henry  George,   Political    Economist,  Author,    Lecturer. 
B.  1839,  Philadelphia;  d.  1897,  New  York. 

We  honor  Liberty  in  name  and  in  form. 
We  set  up  her  statues  and  sound  her  praises, 
But  we  have  not  fully  trusted  her. 
And  with  our  growth  so  grow  her  demands. 
She  will  have  no  half  service. 

Liberty !     It  is  a  word  to  conjure  with, 
Not  to  vex  the  ear  in  empty  boastings,  [law  — 

For  Liberty  means  Justice,  and  Justice  is  the   natural 
The   law  of  health   and  symmetry  and  strength  and 
fraternity. 

As  the  sun  is  the  lord  of  life,  as  well  as  of  light ; 
As  his  beams  support  all  growth,  supply  all  motion, 
And  call  forth  all  the  inlinite  diversities  of  being  and 

beauty. 
So  is  liberty  to  mankind. 

[tion. 
Liberty  is  the  source,  the  mother,  the  necessary  condi- 
She  is  to  virtue  what  light  is  to  color, 
To  wealth  what  sunshine  is  to  grain, 
'J'o  knowledge  what  eyes  are  to  sight.  [strength. 

She  is  the  genius  of  invention,  the  brawn  of  natural 

Where  Liberty  rises,  there  virtue  grows,  wealth  in- 
creases, knowledge  expands. 

And  the  freer  nation  rises  among  her  neighbors  — 
taller  and  fairer. 

Where  Liberty  sinks,  there  virtue  fades,  wealth  dimin- 
ishes, knowledge  is  forgotten,       [freer  barbarians. 

And  empires  once  mighty  become  a  helpless  prey  to 


iXDEPENDENCE  BELL. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Thkrk  was  tumult  in  the  city, 

In  the  quaint  old  Quakers'  town, 


324  INDEPENDENCE  BELL. 

And  the  streets  were  rife  with  people, 
Pacing  restless  up  and  down  ; — 

People  gathering  at  corners, 

Where  they  whispered  each  to  each, 

And  the  sweat  stood  on  their  temples 
With  the  earnestness  of  speech. 

As  the  bleak  Atlantic  currents 

Lash  the  wild  Newfoundland  shore, 
So  they  beat  against  the  State  House, 

So  they  surged  against  the  door  ; 
And  the  mingling  of  their  voices 

Made  a  harmony  profound, 
Till  the  quiet  street  of  Chestnut 

Was  all  turbulent  with  sound. 

«'  Will  they  do  it  ?  "     **  Dare  they  do  it  ? " 
"  Who  is  speaking  ? "  "  What's  the  news  t  " 

"  What  of  Adams  ?  "    "  What  of  Sherman  ?  " 
"  Oh,  God  grant  they  wont  refuse  !  " 

"  Make  some  way  there  !  "   "  Let  me  nearer  ! ' 
"  I  am  stifling  !  "     "  Stifle  then  ! 

When  a  nation's  life's  at  hazard, 
We've  no  time  to  think  of  men  !  " 
*  *         *  *  *  * 

See  !    See  !    The  dense  crowd  quivers 

Through  all  its  lengthy  line. 
As  the  boy  beside  the  portal 

Looks  forth  to  give  the  sign  ! 
With  his  small  hands  upward  lifted, 

Breezes  dallying  with  his  hair. 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS.  325 

Hark  !  with  deep,  clear  intonation, 
Breaks  his  young  voice  on  the  air. 

Hush'd  the  people's  swelling  murmur, 

List  the  boy's  strong  joyous  cry  ! 
"  Ring  !  "  he  shouts,  "  Ring  !  Grandpa, 

Ring  !  Oh,  Ring  for  Liberty  !  " 
And  straightway,  at  the  signal, 

The  old  bellman  lifts  his  hand. 
And  sends  the  good  news,  making 

Iron  music  through  the  land. 

How  they  shouted  !     What  rejoicing  ! 

How  the  old  bell  shook  the  air. 
Till  the  clang  of  freedom  ruffled 

The  calm,  gliding  Delaware  ! 
How  the  bonfires  and  the  torches 

Illumed  the  night's  repose. 
And  from  the  flames,  like  Phoenix, 

Fair  Liberty  arose  ! 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 
By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Poet.    B.  1807,  Massachusetts. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning  ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow. 

And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 


326  IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial  ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall  ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting  ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving. 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled  ; 

His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ; — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing  : 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word  : 
I  hate  to  go  above  you, 


A  STORY  OF  THE  BAREFOOT  BOY.  3^7 

Because," — the  brown  eyes  lower  fell, — 
"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl  !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 

Like  her, — because  they  love  him. 


A   STORY  OF  THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 
By  John  Townsend  Trowbridge,  Poet.    B.  1827,  New  York 

On  Haverhill's  pleasant  hills  there  played, 

Some  sixty  years  ago, 
In  turned-up  trowsers,  tattered  hat. 

The  "  Barefoot  Boy  "  we  know. 

He  roamed  his  berry-fields  content  ; 

But  while  from  bush  and  brier 
The  nimble  feet  got  many  a  scratch. 
His  wit,  beneath  its  homely  thatch, 

Aspired  to  something  higher. 

Over  his  dog-eared  spelling-book. 

Or  school-boy's  composition. 
Puzzling  his  head  with  some  hard  sum. 
Going  for  nuts,  or  gathering  gum, 

He  cherished  his  ambition. 


328  A  STORY  OF  THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

He  found  the  turtles'  eggs,  and  watched 
To  see  the  warm  sun  hatch  'em  ; 

Hunting  with  sling,  or  bow  and  arrow, 

Or  salt  to  trap  the  unwary  sparrow. 
Caught  fish,  or  tried  to  catch  'em. 

But  more  and  more  to  rise,  to  soar — 

This  hope  his  bosom  fired, — 
He  shot  his  arrow,  sailed  his  kite. 
Let  out  the  string  and  watched  its  flight, 

And  smiled  while  he  aspired. 

"  Now  I've  a  plan — I  know  we  can  !  " 

He  said  to  Matt — another 
Small  shaver  of  the  barefoot  sort ; 
His  name  was  Matthew — Matt,  for  short ; 

Our  barefoot's  younger  brother. 

"  What  !  fly  ? "  says  Matt.      "  Well,  not  just  that," 
John  thought ;  "  for  we  can't  fly  ; 

But  we  can  go  right  up,"  says  he  ; 

"  Oh,  higher  than  the  highest  tree  : 
Away  up  in  the  sky  !  " 

"  Oh,  do,"  says  Matt  ;  "  I'll  hold  thy  hat, 

And  watch  while  thee  is  gone." 
For  these  were  Quaker  lads,  lisped 
Each  in  his  pretty  Quaker  speech. 

"  No,  that  wont  do,"  says  John, 

"  For  thee  must  help  ;  then  we  can  float 

As  light  as  any  feather. 
We  both  can  lift  ;  now  don't  thee  see  ? 


A  STORY  OF  THE  BAREFOOT  BOY.  329 

If  thee  lift  me  while  I  lift  thee, 
We  shall  go  up  together  !  " 

An  autumn  evening,  early  dusk, 

A  few  stars  faintly  twinkled  ; 
The  crickets  chirped  ;  the  chores  were  done  ; 
'Twas  just  the  time  to  have  some  fun 

Before  the  tea-bell  tinkled. 

They  spat  upon  their  hands  and  clinched, 

Firm  under  hold  and  upper  ; 
"  Don't  lift  too  hard  or  lift  too  far," 
Says  Matt ;  "  or  we  may  hit  a  star, 

And  not  get  back  to  supper  !  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  John  ;  "  we'll  only  lift 

A  few  rods  up,  that's  all. 
To  see  the  river  and  the  town. 
Now  don't  let  go  till  we  come  down, 

Or  we  shall  catch  a  fall  ! 

Hold  fast  to  me,  now,  one,  two,  three  ! 

And  up  we  go."     They  jerk. 
They  pull  and  strain,  but  all  in  vain  ! 
A  bright  idea,  and  yet,  'twas  plain, 

It  somehow  wouldn't  work. 

John  gave  it  up  ;  Ah,  many  a  John 

Has  tried  and  failed  as  he  did. 
'Twas  a  shrewd  notion,  none  the  le  ;s, 
And  still,  in  spite  of  ill  success. 

It  somewhat  has  succeeded. 


33°  THE  DRUMMER-BOY. 

Kind  Nature  smiled  on  that  wise  child. 

Nor  could  her  love  deny  him 
The  large  fulfillment  of  his  plan, 
Since  he  who  lifts  his  brother  man 
In  turn  is  lifted  by  him. 

He  reached  the  starry  heights  of  peace 

Before  his  head  was  hoary  ; 
And  now,  at  threescore  years  and  ten, 
The  blessings  of  his  fellow-men 
Waft  him  a  crown  of  glory. 


THE    DRUMMER-BOY. 

ANONYMOUS. 

"  Captain  Gray,  the  men  were  sayin' 

Ye  would  want  a  drummer  lad, 
So  I've  brought  my  boy  Sandie, 

Tho'  my  heart  is  woful  sad  ; 
But  nae  bread  is  left  to  feed  us, 

And  nae  siller  to. buy  more, 
For  the  gudeman  sleeps  forever 

Where  the  heather  blossoms  o'er. 

Sandie,  make  your  manners  quickly, 
Play  your  blithest  measure  true — 

Gie  us  '  Flowers  of  Edinboro',' 
While  yon  fifer  plays  it  too. 

Captain,  heard  ye  e'er  a  player 
Strike  in  truer  time  than  he  ']  '' 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY.  l^ 

*'  Nay,  in  truth,  brave  Sandie  Murray 
Drummer  of  our  corps  shall  be." 

"  I  give  ye  thanks — but,  Captain,  maybe 

Ye  will  hae  a  kindly  care 
For  the  friendless,  lonely  laddie, 

When  the  battle's  wark  is  sair  ; 
For  Sandie's  aye  been  good  and  gentle, 

And  I've  nothing  else  to  love, 
Nothing — but  the  grave  off  yonder, 

And  the  father  up  above." 

Then,  her  rough  hand  gently  laying 

On  the  curl-encircled  head, 
She  blessed  her  boy.     The  tent  was  silent, 

And  not  another  word  was  said  ; 
For  Captain  Gray  was  sadly  dreaming 

Of  a  benison,  long  ago, 
Breathed  above  his  head,  then  golden, 

Bending  now  and  touched  with  snow. 

"  Good-by,  Sandie."     "  Good-by,  mother, 

I'll  come  back  some  Summer  day  ; 
Don't  you  fear — they  don't  shoot  drummers 

Ever.     Do  they,  Captain  Gray  "i 
One  more  kiss — watch  for  me,  mother, 

You  will  know  'tis  surely  me 
Coming  home — for  you  will  hear  me 

Playing  soft  the  reveille." 
****** 

After  battle.     Moonbeams  ghastly 
Seemed  to  link  in  strange  affright, 


332  THE  DRUMMER-BOY. 

As  the  scudding  clouds  before  them 
Shadowed  faces  dead  and  white  ; 

And  the  night  wind  softly  whispered, 
When  low  moans  its  light  wing  bore— - 

Moans  that  ferried  spirits  over 

Death's  dark  wave  to  yonder  shore. 

Wandering  where  a  footstep  careless 

Might  go  splashing  down  in  blood, 
Or  a  helpless  hand  lie  grasping 

Death  and  daisies  from  the  sod — 
Captain  Gray  walked  swiftly  onward, 

While  a  faintly  beating  drum 
Quickened  heart  and  step  together  : 

*'  Sandie  Murray  !     See,  I  come  ! 

Is  it  thus  I  find  you,  laddie  ? 

Wounded,  lonely,  lying  here, 
Playing  thus  the  reveille  ? 

See — the  morning  is  not  near." 
A  moment  paused  the  drummer-boy. 

And  lifted  up  his  drooping  head  : 
"  Oh,  Captain  Gray,  the  light  is  coming, 

'Tis  morning,  and  my  prayers  are  said. 

Morning  !     See,  the  plains  grow  brighter- 
Morning — and  I'm  going  home  ; 

That  is  why  I  play  the  measure  ; 
Mother  will  not  see  me  come  ; 

But  you'll  tell  her,  wont  you,  Captain — ?' 
Hush,  the  boy  has  spoken  true  ; 

To  him  the  day  has  dawned  forever. 
Unbroken  by  the  night's  tattoo. 


OUR   COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.  ZZ^ 


OUR  COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS. 

By  John   Greenleaf  Whittier,    Poet.     B.  1807,    Massachu- 
setts;  d.  1892,  New  Hampshire. 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 

Slaves —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood,  — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell,  — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot. 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there,  — 

The  falling  lash,  —  the  fetters  clank  ! 
Slaves,  — slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air, 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  ! 

Wiiat,  ho  !  — our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh  ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh  ! 
What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  I 

What  1  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 

Speak!  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 
Come  thrilling  to  our  liearts  in  vain  } 


334  OUR   COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS. 

To  US  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 
The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain ; 

To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 
Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light,  — 

Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong, 
Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave. 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  i^rayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning. 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Om-  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall. 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance. 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  slave  beneath  our  eye. 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high. 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say  !  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 
A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 

And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 
By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 

And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 
Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 

And  bid  her  bondmen  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb  aside  ? 
****** 


OUR   COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.  335 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  Lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote. 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home. 

Then  turn  and  ask  the  like  of  us  !  " 

Just  God !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest. 

The  Christian's  scorn,  —  the  heathen's  mirth,  — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part. 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  Nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up,  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing ! 
Up,  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing  !  . 

Oh  !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth,  — 
The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man,  — 

Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 
When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 

Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 
Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath? 


33^  THE   PHILOSOPHER'S  ESCAPE. 

Up,  —  up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 
The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  !  —  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw,  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life, — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain,  —  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod. 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink. 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there. 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven  ! 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  ESCAPE. 

By  Eva  Lovett,  Poet,  Editor.  Editor  of  the  Young  Folks' 
Page  of  the  Brooklyn  Sunday  Eagle. 

Reprinted  from  the  St,  AHcholas  Magazine  with  the  permission 
of  the  Century  Company. 

Once  there  lived  a  wise  philosopher  (so  runs  an  ancient 

rhyme), 
Who  was  prisoned  in  a  dungeon,  although  guilty  of  no 

crime  ; 
And  he  bore  it  with  a  patience  that  might  well  be  called 

sublime. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER'S   ESCAPE.  337 

For  the  cruel  king  who  put  him  there  had  made  a  stern 

decree : 
"  Imprisoned  in  this  dungeon  the  philosopher  shall  be, 
Till  he  find  out  by  his  own  wise  brains  the  means  to 

make  him  free." 

This  king  despised  philosophers  ;  he  smiled  a  cunning 

smile, 
When  his  people  said  :  "Your  Majesty,  the  sage  is  free 

from  guile  ; 
And  consider,  sir,  the  poor  old  soul    has  been  there 

such  a  while  !  " 

"Then  let  him  find  the  way  to  leave,"  sternly  the  king 

replied. 
Full  seven  weary  weeks  had  passed  ;  the  sage  still  sat 

and  sighed. 
And  pondered  how  to  break  his  bonds,  but  long  and 

vainly  tried. 

He  had  no  money  and  no  tools  ;  he  racked  his  learned 

brain 
To  solve  the  dreary  problem  —  how  his  liberty  to  gain. 
He  wept,  and  wrung  his  useless  hands  :  but  groaned 

and  wept  in  vain. 

One  morn,  as  he  sat  scheming  for  the  freedom  that  he 

sought, 
A  plow-boy  passed  the  window,  with  a  cheery  whistle, 

caught 
From  happy  heart.     The  lively  sound  disturbed    the 

wise  man's  thought. 


33^  THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  ESCAPE. 

The  peasant  stopped  his  merry  tune,  and  peered  within 

to  see 
Who   the  creature  that  inhabited   that   gloomy  place 

might  be. 
"  Easy  'tis,"  quote  the  philosopher,  "  to  sin^  when  one 
is  free." 

"  But  why  do  you  sit  moaning  there  ? "  the  merry  peasant 

cried. 
"My  prison  door  is  locked  and  barred,"  the  mournful 

sage  replied  ; 
"  Who  has  no  money,  tools,  nor  friends  forever  here 

may  bide  !  " 

"  But  if   the  door  is  locked  and   barred,"  the  stupid 

boy  still  cried, 
"The  window  opens  outward,  and  the  window  opens 

wide  !  " 
The  wise  man  started, — paused, — and  then  with  dignity 

he  eyed 

The  foolish  clown.     "My  boy,"  said  he,  "a  notion  so 

absurd, 
So  plain  and  simple,  could  not  to  me  have  e'er  occurred  ; 
But" — (Here  he  leaped  the  window  without  another 

word). 

The  plow-boy  stared  amazed,  then  slowly  shook   his 

head  in  doubt. 
"  If   that's   your  wise  philosophy,"  said   he,  "  I'll   do 

without." 
And  the  monarch  heard  the  story  with  many  a  merry 

shout. 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND    THE  STATE.  339 


THE   SCHOLAR   AND   THE   STATE. 

By  Frank  S.  Black,  Statesman,  Lawyer,  Governor  of  New 
York.      B.  1853,  Maine;    resides  in  Troy,  N.Y. 

"  I  SOMETIMES  doubt  whether  the  obligation  of  the 
State  to  the  scholar  is  as  great  as  it  used  to  be.  In 
the  earlier  days  of  the  Republic  the  statesman,  the 
politician  and  the  scholar  were  the  same.  What  any 
man  possessed  of  education  or  enlightenment  was  de- 
voted freely  to  his  country.  His  individual  attainment 
was  his  country's  gain  and  at  his  country's  service. 
It  seems  sometimes  as  though  the  scholar's  path  is 
narrowing  as  he  advances.  If  that  be  true  it  is  not  a 
promise,  but  a  danger.  As  the  world  enlarges  the 
scholar  should  broaden  with  the  rest.  He  should  grow 
to  the  size  of  a  statesman,  and  not  shrink  to  the  crip- 
pled stature  of  a  critic.  Scholarship  is  degraded  un- 
less joined  with  charity  and  sense.  Her  domain  should 
be  the  whole  world,  her  subject  the  vvhole  race,  and 
she  should  be  ashamed  to  let  her  voice  be  always 
prophetic  of  misfortune. 

"  Evils  exist  in  the  world,  but  men  are  very  rare 
who  have  not  heard  of  that.  The  need  is  for  correc- 
tion and  for  aid  to  those  who  are  willing  to  attempt  it. 
If  a  fire  rages  the  call  is  not  for  one  to  tell  how  it 
could  be  prevented  or  to  chide  those  who  fight  it,  but 
for  help  to  put  it  out.  It  should  be  quenched  first  and 
discussed  afterward.  One  fighter  on  the  spot  is  worth 
a  thousand  critics  at  home.  Scholars  are  going  deeper 
and  deeper  every  year,  but  the  world  would  forgive 


340  THE  SCHOLAR  AND    THE  STATE. 

them  for  not  going  so  deep  if  they  would  only  have 
more  breadth.  If  they  dig  wisely  they  may  accom- 
plish much,  but  little  good  is  done  by  those  who  only 
burrow.  The  latter  come  to  the  surface  only  often 
enough  to  be  astonished  without  comprehending.  A 
partial  comprehension  makes  many  critics  but  no  mas- 
ters. 

"  Scholars  should  stay  up  in  the  light,  even  though 
the  sun  be  warm.  They  are  confined  too  much  in  the 
study  and  are  not  enough  out  in  the  sun.  They  learn 
too  much  from  books  and  not  enough  from  experience. 
They  rely  too  much  upon  what  a  thing  is  said  to  be 
instead  of  what  it  is.  We  have  reached  a  period  when 
not  everything  reported  is  certain  to  be  true.  If  the 
scholar  would  sometimes  mingle  in  the  current  of  af- 
fairs, would  step  down  from  the  shades  of  the  bank 
and  let  that  current  touch  him,  he  would  know  after 
that  that  not  every  man  who  enters  that  current  goes 
over  the  dam.  If  he  enters  resolutely  and  works  well 
he  may  bring  some  rubbish  ashore,  and  even  if  the 
stream  appears  not  to  have  been  improved  much 
where  he  stands  it  will  be  clearer  below." 


THE  PRAYER   OF  AG  A  SSI Z.  341 


THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 

By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Poet.  B.  1807,  Massachu- 
setts. 

Louis  Jean  Rodolpb  Agassiz,  Naturalist.  B.  1807,  Switzer- 
land ;  d.  1873,  Massachusetts. 

The  island  of  Penikese,  one  of  a  group  of  islands  sixteen 
miles  southwest  of  Cape  Cod,  was  given  by  John  Anderson  of 
New  York  in  1873  as  a  place  for  a  summer  school  of  natural 
history.  The  first  session  was  presided  over  by  Agassiz,  who 
died  the  following  autumn. 

On  the  isle  of  Penikese, 
Ringed  about  by  sapphire  seas, 
Fanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool. 
Stood  the  master  with  his  school. 
Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 
Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain 
Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 
Stretched  its  undulating  bar, 
Wings  aslant  along  the  rim 
Of  the  waves  that  stooped  to  skim. 
Rock  and  isle  and  glistening  bay 
Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth  : 
"  We  have  come  in  search  of  truth. 
Trying  with  uncertain  key 
Door  by  door  of  mystery  ; 
We  are  reaching,  tlirough  His  laws. 
To  the  garment-hem  of  Cause, 
***** 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 
What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 


342  THE  PR  A  YER   OF  AGASSIZ. 

Of  the  unseen  in  the  seen, 
What  the  Thought  which  underlies 
Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 
What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 
Bliffht  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 
*  *  *  #  * 

On  the  threshold  of  our  task 
Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask, 
Let  us  pause  in  silent  prayer!" 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 

Bowed  his  head  a  little  space, 

And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 

Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  bird, 

Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 

Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 

While  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid, 

Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 
***** 

As  thin  mists  are  glorified 
By  the  light  they  cannot  hide. 
All  who  gazed  upon  him  saw, 
Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe, 
How  his  face  was  still  uplit 
By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 
Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer, 
And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 
Who  the  secret  may  declare 
Of  that  brief,  unuttered  prayer  ? 
Did  the  shade  before  him  come 
Of  the  inevitable  doom. 
Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 
And  Eternity's  new  year  ? 


THE  PRAYER   OF  AG  A  SSI Z.  343 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 
Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese  ; 
But  the  lord  of  the  domain 
Comes  not  to  his  own  again  : 
Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail, 
On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 
Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  hail ! 
Other  lips  within  its  bound 
Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound  ; 
Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 
Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well ; 
But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 
Blow  from  summer's  blossomed  land, 
When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
Many  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek 
He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  forevermore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
By  the  curlew's  whistle,  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air ; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her 
Nature  owns  her  worshiper, 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 


344  WASHINGTON  AND    THE  NATION. 


WASHINGTON   AND   THE   NATION. 

By  John  Warwick  Daniel,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1842, 
Virginia.     Senator  of  the  United  States  and  resides  at  Wasiiington. 

From  an  oration  delivered  at  the  dedication  of  the  Washington 
Monument  February  21,  1885. 

"  Fascinated  by  the  perfection  of  the  man,  we  are 
loath  to  break  the  mirror  of  admiration  into  the  frag- 
ments of  analysis.  But,  lo  !  as  we  attempt  it,  every 
fragment  becomes  the  miniature  of  such  sublimity  and 
beauty,  that  the  destructive  hand  can  only  multiply 
the  forms  of  immortality. 

"  Grand  and  manifold  as  were  its  phases,  there  is  yet 
no  difficulty  in  understanding  the  character  of  Wash- 
ington. He  was  no  Veiled  Prophet.  He  never  acted 
a  part.  Simple,  natural  and  unaffected,  his  life  lies 
before  us  —  a  fair  and  open  manuscript.  He  disdained 
the  arts  which  wrap  power  and  mystery,  in  order  to 
magnify  it.  He  practiced  the  profound  diplomacy  of 
truthful  speech  —  the  consummate  tact  of  direct  atten- 
tion. Looking  ever  to  the  All-Wise  Disposer  of  events, 
he  relied  on  that  Providence  which  helps  men,  by 
giving  them  high  hearts  and  hopes,  to  help  themselves 
with  the  means  which  their  Creator  has  put  at  their 
service.  There  was  no  infirmity  in  his  conduct  ov 
which  Charity  must  fling  its  veil ;  no  taint  of  selfish- 
ness from  which  Purity  averts  her  gaze  ;  no  dark  recess 
of  intrigue  that  must  be  lit  up  with  colored  panegyric  ; 
no  subterranean  passage  to  be  trod  in  trembling  lest 
there  be  stirred  the  ghost  of  a  buried  crime. 

"  It  was  as  a  statesman  that  Washington  was  greatest. 


WASHINGTON  AND  THE   NATION.  345 

Not  in  the  sense  that  Hamilton  and  Jefferson,  Adams 
and  Madison  were  statesmen  ;  but  in  a  larger  sense. 
Men  may  marshal  armies  who  cannot  drill  divisions. 
Men  may  marshal  nations  in  storm  and  travail  who 
have  not  the  accomplishments  of  their  Cabinet  Minis- 
ters. Not  so  versed  as  they  was  he  in  the  details  of 
political  science.  And  yet  as  he  studied  tactics  when 
he  anticipated  war,  so  he  studied  politics  when  he  fore- 
saw his  civil  role  approaching,  reading  the  history  and 
examining  the  principles  of  ancient  and  modern  con- 
federacies, and  making  notes  of  their  virtues,  defects, 
and  methods  of  operation.  His  pen  did  not  possess 
the  facile  play  and  classic  grace  of  their  pens,  but  his 
vigorous  eloquence  had  the  clear  ring  of  our  mother 
tongue.  I  will  not  say  that  he  was  so  astute,  so  quick, 
so  inventive  as  the  one  or  other  of  them,  —  that  his 
jnind  was  characterized  by  the  vivacity  of  wit,  the  rich 
colorings  of  fancy,  or  daring  flights  of  imagination. 
But  with  him  thought  and  action  like  well  trained 
coursers  kept  abreast  in  the  chariot  race,  guided  by 
an  eye  that  never  quailed,  reined  by  a  hand  that  never 
trembled.  He  had  a  more  infallible  discrimination 
of  circumstances  and  men  than  any  of  his  cotem- 
poraries.  He  weighed  facts  in  a  juster  scale,  with 
larger  equity,  and  firmer  equanimity.  He  best  applied 
to  them  the  lessons  of  experience.  With  greater  ascen- 
dency of  character  he  held  men  to  their  apjiointed 
tasks ;  with  more  inspiring  virtue  he  commanded  more 
implicit  confidence.  He  bore  a  truer  divining  rod, 
and  through  a  wilderness  of  contention  he  alone  was 
the  unerring  Pathfinder  of  the  People.     Encompassed 


34(>  WASHINGTON  AND    THE   NATION. 

by  the  inviolate  seas  stands  to-day  the  American  Re- 
public which  he  founded  —  a  free  Greater  Britain  — 
uplifted  above  the  powers  and  principalities  of  the 
earth,  even  as  his  monument  is  uplifted  over  roof  and 
dome  and  spire  of  the  multitudinous  city. 

"  Long  live  the  Republic  of  Washington  !  Respected 
by  mankind,  beloved  of  all  its  sons,  long  may  it  be  the 
asylum  of  the  poor  and  oppressed  of  all  lands  and 
religions  —  long  may  it  be  the  citadel  of  that  Liberty 
which  writes  beneath  the  Eagle's  folded  wings:  "We 
will  sell  to  no  man,  we  will  deny  to  no  man,  Right  and 
Justice." 

"  Long  live  the  United  States  of  America  !  Filled 
with  the  free,  magnanimous  spirit,  crowned  by  the 
wisdom,  blessed  by  the  moderation,  hovered  over  by 
the  guardian  angel  of  Washington's  example,  may 
they  be  ever  worthy  in  all  things  to  be  defended  by 
the  blood  of  the  brave  who  know  the  rights  of  man, 
and  shrink  not  from  their  assertion  ;  —  may  they  be 
each  a  column,  and  all  together,  under  the  Constitu- 
tion, a  perpetual  Temple  of  Peace,  unshadowed  by 
a  Caesar's  palace;  —  at  whose  altar  may  freely  com- 
mune all  who  seek  the  union  of  Liberty  and  Brother- 
hood. 

"  Long  live  our  Country  !  Oh,  long  through  the  un- 
dying ages  may  it  stand,  far  removed  in  fact  as  in 
space  from  the  Old  World's  feuds  and  follies  —  soli- 
tary and  alone  in  its  grandeur  and  its  glory,  itself  the 
immortal  monument  of  Him  whom  Providence  com- 
missioned to  teach  man  the  power  of  Truth,  and  to 
prove  to  the  nations  that  their  Redeemer  liveth." 


IMMORTAL    WASHINGTON.  347 


IMMORTAL   WASHINGTON. 

By  Richard  Casper  Dillmore,  Author.  B.  Camden,  N.J., 
1870.  Written  to  commemorate  the  unveiling  of  the  Washington 
Monument,  Fairmount  Park,  Philadelphia,  1897. 


The  dear  Old  Bell  is  silent  now  that  rang  the  anthem 

grand, 
Proclaiming  with  its  iron  tongue   Sweet   Freedom   in 

this  land. 
The   cadence   of    that    brazen    chime,    attuned   with 

Liberty, 
Inspired  brave  men    to   carve    sublime    this    nation's 

destiny. 

In  midnight  hours  of  bloody  strife  that  gave  the  Union 

birth, 
It  pealed  a  Declaration  that  was  heard  throughout  the 

earth. 
The  nations  saw  our  patriots  march  boldly  forth  to 

war, 
And  then  beheld  them  write  their  fame  in  proud  old 

England's  gore. 

Untutored  in  the  battle  art  they  did  not  fear  the  foe  ; 
They  knew  that  they  were  sore  oppressed,  that  was 

enough  to  know. 
They  followed   brave  George  Washington,  who   gave 

his  service  free, 
And  fired   them  with  the    loyal   zeal    to   crush    their 
enemy. 


348  IMMORTAL    WASHINGTON. 

Amid  the  snow  at  Valley  Forge  he  counselled  with  his 

God, 
To  find  a  way  to  free  this  land  on  which  the  tyrant 

trod. 
Did  God  respond   to  this  true  man  who  prayed  with 

tear-dimmed  eyes  ? 
From  out  the  ashes  of  the  past  behold  his  triumph 

rise. 

Those  starving  men  whose  bare,  torn  feet  left  blood 
stains  in  the  snow 

This  man  inspired  with  fortitude  that  godlike  martyrs 
know. 

That  was  the  time  when  souls  of  men  were  tried  be- 
yond belief, 

With  only  death,  that  boon  alone,  to  give  their  souls 
relief. 

And  yet  they  fought  like  men   of  steel,  like  gallant 

knights  of  old  ; 
Nor   did    they   heed   the   leaden   rain,  nor   heat,  nor 

winter's  cold. 
They  did  not  even  hesitate  for  lack  of  clothes  and 

food; 
A   man   of   God  was   leading   them;   'twas   for   their 

country's  good. 

They  did  not  question  how  or  when  the  dreadful  strife 

would  cease. 
But  Liberty  alone  could  change  war  songs  to  hymns  of 

peace. 


IMMORTAL    WASHINGTON.  349 

Embalm  their  mem'ries  in  your  hearts,  ye    sons   of 

Washington ; 
Give  thanks  to  God  for  all  the  deeds  that  these  brave 

men  have  done. 

When  carnage  reigned  their  battle-cry  was,  "  Death  or 

Liberty  !  " 
And  as  they  fought  their  only  aim  was  death  to  tyranny. 
It  was  a  war,  a  righteous  war,  against  despotic  might, 
And  Heaven  smiled  its  sweetest  smile  on  Freedom  and 

the  Right. 

Those   loyal   sons,  who  hailed  with  joy  the   dawn   of 

Libertv, 
Now  wear  the  brightest  laurel  crown  of  immortality. 
The  vigils  of  that  bloody  past  no   more  they  wake  to 

keep; 
This  nation's  love  and  gratitude  rocks  them  in  slumber 

deep. 

Like  that  old  cracked  and  silent  Bell,  whose  fame  will 
never  die. 

Our  martyred  dead  the  flight  of  time  will  even  glorify. 

If  you  but  listen  with  your  hearts  you'll  hear  that  Old 
Bell's  voice 

Sing  in  your  soul  the  melody  that  made  this  land  re- 
joice. 

In  fancy  you  will  hear  the  notes  that  rang  across  the 

sea, 
And  bade  the  universe  behold  our  grand  supremacy. 


350  IMMORTAL    WASHINGTON. 

From  age  to  age  all  loyal  sons  who  love  this  mighty 

clime 
Will  hear  and  bless  the  echo  of  that  dear  Old  Bell's 

sweet  chime. 

Our  Independence  still  it  sings  with  an  immortal  tongue; 
Sweet  symphony  of  Liberty,  the  grandest  ever  sung. 
From  Freedom's  rock  of  ages  those  defiant  tones  were 

hurled 
When  our  oppressed,  but  fearless  sires  astounded  all 

the  world. 

Now  first  among  the  nations  stands  this  Mecca  of  the 
West, 

The  haven  of  vast  multitudes  with  tyranny  oppressed. 

And  when  our  flag  of  Stripes  and  Stars  floats  on  each 
gentle  breeze, 

It  thrills  the  Union's  loyal  sons  with  Freedom's  ec- 
stasies. 

Republic  of  republics,  that  has  stood  the  test  of  years, 
With   heroes'   blood    baptized    full    oft,   and    tender 

women's  tears ; 
A  heritage  of  Liberty  our  stoic  father  won 
When   he    avenged   the   martyred   dead   who   fell    at 

Lexington. 

In  civil  strife,  like  that  which  rent  the  nations  in  the 

past, 
The  Union  braved  the  hurricane  of  each  terrific  blast ; 
For  God  had  blessed  the  nation  that  was  built  by 

Washington  ; 
To-day  it  stands  united  as  a  brotherhood  in  one. 


IMMORTAL    WASHINGTON.  351 

He  built  our  grand  foundation  to  defy  old  Father 
Time, 

And  carved  our  perfect  destiny,  immorta-lly  sublime, 

In  this,  the  freemen's  empire  of  the  Western  Hemi- 
sphere, 

Whose  people  truly  grateful  hold  his  mem'ry  ever  dear. 

Well  may  the  hosts  pay  tribute,  then,  to  this  great 

nation's  sire  ; 
The  mention  of  his  magic  name  will  evermore  inspire 
His  sons  and  daughters  with  the  truth  of  perfect  loyalty; 
Beneath  the  dear  old   Stars  and  Stripes   they  pledge 

their  fealty. 

No  despot  ruler's  iron  hand  doth  here  oppress  mankind ; 
W^e're  equal  born,   our  noblemen  are  men   of   noble 

mind. 
Each  one  is  master  of  himself,  no  subject  bound   in 

chains ; 
His  fortune  is  his  daily  toil,  that  which  his  labor  gains. 

To  heights  sublime  the  low  may  rise,  and  then  both 
near  and  far 

They  shine  with  all  the  brilliancy  of  some  bright  even- 
ing star. 

The  rich  and  poor  alike  are  blessed  with  chances  just 
the  same, 

And  they  can  either  make  or  mar  the  lustre  of  their 
fame. 

♦  «♦♦** 


352  IMMORTAL    WASHINGTON. 

Our  Ship  of  State  sails  on  and  on,  triumphant  through 

the  years ; 
Our  captain  is  our  servant,  and  the  people  are  his  peers ; 
He  is  our  choice  by  right  to    choose — the  Union's 

first-made  plan  ; 
Begun  by  him  we  honor  now,  a  God-made  perfect  man. 

The  new  world's  uncrowned  king  was  he,  for  he  refused 

a  crown  ; 
Not  like  great  Caesar,  thrice  refused   and  sighed  to 

put  it  down, 
Who  did  not  dare  accept  the  gift  and  wear  that  diadem ; 
For  well  he  knew,. were  he  a  king,  his  life  Rome  would 

condemn. 

Our   sire   refused  of   his  own  choice,    for  this  great 

country's  good ; 
The  evils  of  a  monarchy  he  clearly  understood. 
Firm  as  a  giant  rock  he  stood  ;  drove  back  the  foreign 

horde ; 
Established   our   republic  with   the   musket   and   the 

sword. 

He  did  not  sigh  for  other  worlds  to  conquer  with  his 

strife. 
He  merely  fought  to  give  on  earth  a  noble  nation  life. 
He  did  not  let  ambition  turn  his  tender  heart  to  steel. 
For  it  was  filled  with  that  true  love  which  all  true  heroes 

feel. 

As  we  unveil  the  sculptured  bronze  of  our  immortal  sire, 
A  more  fraternal  brotherhood  in  us  it  doth  inspire. 


A    UNITED   COUNTRY.  353 

The  North  and  South  join  loving  hands,  one  kindred 

as  of  old ; 
The  dear  old  flag  floats  o'er  us  all  —  God  bless  each 

brilliant  fold ! 

There  is  no  North,  there  is  no  South  ;  our  brave  sire 

willed  it  so  : 
The  two  are  one,  and  we  are  his,  as  'twas  in  years  ago ; 
And  for  his  sake  throughout  the  land  fraternal  love 

shall  reign, 
And  never  shall  its  peaceful  sway  become   usurped 

again. 

The  noble  dead  shall  never  die  as  long  as  time  shall 

last. 
And  down  the  vista  of  the  years  of  ages  that  are  past 
The  greatest  of  that  mighty  host,  who  once  on  earth 

held  sway, 
Is  our  immortal  Washington  who  leads  them  all  to-day. 


A   UNITED    COUNTRY. 

By  George  Frisbie  Hoar,  Statesman,  Jurist,  Senator  of  the 
United  States.     B.  1826,  Massachusetts. 

Delivered  at  the  banquet  of  the  New  England  Society  at  Charles- 
ton, .S.  C,  December,  1898. 

If  cordial  friendship  can  ever  exist  between  two 
communities  they  should  exist  between  Massachusetts 
and  South  Carolina.  They  were  alike  in  llic  circum- 
stances of  their  origin.  The  English  Pilgrims  and 
Puritans  founded  Massachusetts.  Scotch  Presbyte- 
rianism  founded  Carolina,  to  be  followed  soon  after  by 
the  French  exiles  fleeing  from  the  same  oppression. 


354  A    UNITED    COUNTRY. 

If  there  be  a  single  lesson  which  the  people  of 
this  country  have  learned  from  their  wonderful  and 
crowded  history,  it  is  that  the  North  and  South  are 
indispensable  to  each  other.  They  are  the  blades  of 
mighty  shears,  worthless  apart,  but,  when  bound  by 
an  indissoluble  Union,  powerful,  irresistible,  and  ter- 
rible as  the  shears  of  Fate. 

The  boys  and  girls  of  South  Carolina  and  the  boys 
and  girls  of  Massachusetts  went  to  the  same  school  in 
the  old  days.  Their  schoolmasters  were  tyranny  and 
poverty  and  exile  and  starvation.  They  learned  in 
that  school  little  of  the  grace  or  the  luxury  of  life. 
But  they  learned  how  to  build  States  and  how  to  fight 
tyrants. 

Whatever  estrangements  may  have  existed  in  the 
past,  or  may  linger  among  us  now,  are  born  of  igno- 
rance and  will  be  dispelled  by  knowledge. 

The  American  people  have  learned  to  know,  as 
never  before,  the  quality  of  the  Southern  stock,  and  to 
value  its  noble  contribution  to  the  American  charac- 
ter; its  courage  in  war,  its  attachment  to  home  and 
State,  its  love  of  rural  life,  its  capacity  for  great  affec- 
tion and  generous  emotion,  its  aptness  for  command; 
above  all,  its  constancy,  that  virtue  above  all  virtues, 
without  which  no  people  can  long  be  either  great  or 
free. 

The  best  evidence  of  our  complete  reconciliation  is 
that  there  is  no  subject  that  we  need  to  hurry  by  with 
our  fingers  on  our  lips.  The  time  has  come  when 
Americans,  North,  South,  East,  and  West,  may  dis- 
cuss any  question  of  public  interest  in  a  friendly  and 


A    UNITED    COUNTRY.  355 

quiet  spirit,  without  recrimination  and  witliout  heat, 
each  understanding  the  other,  each  striving  to  help 
the  other  as  men  who  are  bearing  a  common  burden 
and  looking  forward  with  a  common  hope. 

We  have  not  yet  solved  the  problem  how  men  of 
different  races  can  dwell  together  in  the  same  land  in 
accordance  with  our  principles  of  republican  rule  and 
republican  liberty.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  de- 
spair of  the  solution  of  that  problem  in  justice  and  in 
freedom.  I  do  not  look  upon  the  dark  side  when  I 
think  of  the  future  of  our  beloved  land.  I  count  it 
the  one  chief  good  fortune  of  my  own  life,  that  I  look 
out  on  the  world  with  hope  and  not  despair.  We 
have  made  wonderful  advances  within  the  lifetime  of 
the  youngest  of  us. 

On  the  whole,  we  are  advancing  quite  as  rapidly 
as  could  be  expected  to  the  time  when  these  races 
will  live  together  on  American  soil  in  freedom,  in 
honor,  and  in  peace,  every  man  enjoying  his  just 
right  wherever  the  American  Constitution  reigns, 
and  wherever  the  American  flag  floats,  when  the  in- 
fluence of  intelligence,  of  courage,  of  energy,  inspired 
by  a  lofty  patriotism,  and  by  a  Christian  love,  will 
have  its  full  and  legitimate  effect,  not  through  dis- 
order, or  force,  or  lawlessness,  but  under  the  silent 
and  sure  law  by  which  always  the  superior  leads  and 
the  inferior  follows. 


3S6  A   REUNITED    COUNTRY. 

A  REUNITED  COUNTRY. 

By  William  McKinley,  Statesman,  President  of  the  United 
States.     B.  1843,  Niles,  Ohio. 

At  a  banquet  closing  the  festivities  of  the  Atlanta  Peace  Jubilee, 
December,  1898,  President  McKinley  made  an  address  in  response 
to  the  toast  "  Our  Country." 

"The  nation  has  been  at  war,  not  within  its  own 
shores,  but  with  a  foreign  power  —  a  war  waged  not 
for  revenge  or  aggrandizement,  but  for  our  oppressed 
neighbors,  for  their  freedom  and  amelioration. 

"  It  was  short  but  decisive.  It  recorded  a  succes 
sion  of  significant  victories  on  land  and  on  sea.  It 
gave  new  honors  to  American  arins.  It  has  brought 
new  probleins  to  the  republic,  whose  solution  will  tax 
the  genius  of  our  people.  United  we  will  meet  and 
solve  them  with  honor  to  ourselves  and  to  the  lasting 
benefit  of  all  concerned.  The  war  brought  us  together. 
Its  settlement  will  keep  us  together. 

"Reunited — ^ glorious  realization.  It  expresses  the 
thought  of  my  mind  and  the  long  deferred  consum- 
mation of  my  heart's  desire  as  I  stand  in  this  presence. 
It  interprets  the  hearty  demonstration  here  witnessed, 
and  is  the  patriotic  refrain  of  all  sections  and  all  lovers 
of  the  republic. 

"  Reunited  —  one  country  again  and  one  country 
forever.  Proclaim  it  from  the  press  and  pulpit ;  teach 
it  in  the  schools ;  write  it  across  the  skies.  The  world 
sees  and  feels  it.  It  cheers  every  heart  north  and 
south,  and  brightens  the  life  of  every  American  home. 
Let  nothing  ever  strain  it  again.  At  peace  with  all 
the  world  and  with  each  other,  what  can  stand  in  the 
pathway  of  our  progress  and  prosperity  ?  " 


CLASSIFIED   INDEX. 


I.     COMMEMORATIVE. 

AUTHOR.  PAGE 

The  Inspiration  of  Sacri- 
fice    James  A.  Garfield  ...  14 

2.     DESCRIPTIVE. 

A  Morning  Landscapf,    .     .      Walter  Scott 277 

An  Autobiography.  .  .  .  Phillips  Brooks  ....  131 
A    Story  of  the  Barefoot 

Boy John  T.  Trowbridge     .     .  327 

Cardinal  Wolsey    ....     Shakespeare 83 

Chief  Justice  Marshall     .  Edward  J.  Phelps  .    .     .  229 

Clear  the  Way Charles  Mackay  ....  59 

Courage Horace  Porter     ....  278 

Das  Light  des  Auges      .     .     Schiller 105 

Eulogy  on  John  Bright     .  William  E.  Gladstone      .  81 

Farf,well  to  England    .     .  Edward  J.  Phelps  ...  67 

Jerusalem  by  Mixjnlight    .  Benjamin  Disraeli .     .     .  279 

Marathon Edward  Bulwer  Lytton   .  143 

Martin  Luther Charles  P.  Krauth  ...  39 

Mercy Shakespeare 31 

Morituri  Salutamus  .     .     .  Ileury  W.  Lo7igfelloiv .     .  32 

Ode  t(j  tiik  Passions.  .  .  IVillia-m  Collins.  .  .  .  132 
Raphael's  Account  of  the 

Creation John  Milton 98 

Sir  Walter's  Honor  .     .     .  Margaret  J.  Preston     .     .  173 

The  Book  AND  the  Building  Richard  S.  Storrs    .    .     .  166 

357 


35^ 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 


AUTHOR. 

The  Death  of  Moses  .     .     .  Johtt  Ruskin  .... 

The  Finding  of  the  Lyre  .  James  Russell  Lowell  . 

The  Highland  Stranger    .     Walter  Scott  .... 

The  Lights  of  Lawrence  .  Ertiest  W.  Shurtleff    . 

The  Mission  Tea  Party.     .  Emily  Huntington  Nason 

The  Monarchy  of  C/ESAR   .     Theodor  Mommsen 

The  Olympic  Crown  .     ,     .  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 

The  Opening  of  the  Brook- 
lyn Bridge Abram  S.  Hewitt    .     . 

The  Typical  Dutchman      .  Henry  J.  Van  Dyke     . 

The  Two  Spies,  Andr6  and 

Hale Chauncey  M.  Depew    . 

The  Two  Streams  of  His- 
tory         Charles  L.  Thompson  . 

The  Wonders  of  the  Dawn  Edward  Everett      .     . 

Tyre,  Venice,  and  England  John  Ruskin  .... 

Westminster  Abbey    .    .     .  Washington  Irving     . 

3.     DRAMATIC. 

Absalom's  Vision     ....  James  A.  Hillhouse 
Alfred   the   Great  to  His 

Men James  S.  Knowles  . 

Arnold  Winkelried    .     .     .  James  Montgomery .     . 

Crispian's  Day Shakespeare    .... 

Marco  Bozzaris Fitz-Greene  Halleck     . 

Opportunity Edward  Rowland  Sill 

Our  Countrymen  in  Chains  John  G.  Whittier    .     . 

Rienzi  to  the  Romans    .     .  Mary  Russell  Mit/ord 
The   Black  Horse  and  His 

Rider George  Lippard .     .     . 

The  Battle  of  Ivry   .     .     .  T.  B.  Macaulay .     .     . 

The  Contest  in  the  Arena  Henryk  Sienkiewicz     . 
The  Death-Bed  of  Benedict 

Arnold George  Lippard  .     .    . 

The  Eve  of  Waterloo  .     .  Lord  Byron  .... 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 


359 


The  Lost  Colors  .  .  . 
The  Return  of  Regulus 
Youthful  Valor     .     .    . 


AUTHOR. 

PAGE 

Mary  A.  Barr    .     . 

.    .    217 

Elijah  Kellogg   .     . 

•   .     71 

TyrtcEus     .... 

.   •    274 

4.     DRAMATIC  AND   DESCRIPTIVE. 


CAESAR  Rodney's  Ride 

Flodden  Field    .     .     . 

Herv6  Riel     .... 

Keenan's  Charge    .     . 

Richelieu  and  France 

Stavoren  (Poetic)  .     . 

St.  Martin  and  the  Beggar 

The  Burghers  of  Calais    . 

The  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade 

The  Chariot  Race.     .     .     . 

The  Destruction  of  Pompeii 

The  First  Predicted  Eclipse 

The  First  View  of  the 
Heavens 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettys- 
burg      

The  Last  Night  of  Pompeii 

The  Marble  Queen     .     .     . 

The  Monster  Cannon     .    . 

The  Trenton's  Cheer  to 
Calliope 

The  Victor  of  Marengo    . 


Elbridge  S.  Brooks . 


Walter  Scott  .... 
Robert  Brouiiihig  .  . 
George  Parsons  Lathrop 
Edward  Biilwer  Lytton 
Helen  Stevens  Conant  . 
Mary  E.  Sangster  .  . 
Emily  A.  Braddock     . 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

Sophocles 

Edward  Btilwer  Lytton 
Ormsby  M.  Mitchel      . 

Ormsby  M.  Mitchel      . 

Will  H.  Thompson.     . 
Edward  Bukuer  Lytton 
Susan  Coolidge 
Victor  Hugo  . 


Anonymous 
Anonymous 


5.    historic  and  descriptive 

The   Coronation   of   Anne 

Bo  LEY  N James  A.  Froude 

The  Puritan  and  the  Pil- 
grim        George  F.  Hoar  . 


283 

184 

261 

21 

65 

3 

266 

163 

74 

179 

35 
256 

75 

63 

285 

317 
52 

251 
224 


10 


226 


36o 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX, 


HUMOROUS. 

AUTHOR. 

.     .      Thomas  Hood 

.     S.  IV.  Gillian 

Thomas  Hood 


John  IVolcolt  .     .     . 
Samuel  L.  Clemens 
Eva  Lovett     .     .     . 


Equestrian  Courtship    .    . 

FiNNIGIN    TO    FLANNIGIN     .       . 

Pain  in  a  Pleasure  Boat  . 

The  Apple-Dumplings  and 

George  the  Third  .     .     . 

The  Coyote 

The  Philosopher's  Escape  . 

The  Pond Dr.  John  Byrom 

When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Hot      Paul  L.  Dunbar 

7.     NATIONAL   HOLIDAYS. 
(a)   Fourth  of  July. 

Independence  Bell      .     .     .     Anonymous    .     .     .     . 

(i)    Lincoln's  Birthday. 
Abraham  Lincoln    ....    fames  Russell  Lowell  . 

(c)    Memorial  Day. 
The  Invisible  Heroes     .     .     Henry  Ward  Beecher . 
The     Palmetto     and     the 

Pine Manley  H.  Pike .     .     . 

Decoration    Day    Address 
AT  Arlington James  A.  Garjield  .     . 

(fl)    'Washington's  Birthday. 
Schools   and   Colleges    of 

Our  Country Charles  William  Eliot 

Immortal  Washington    .     .    Richard  C.  Dillmore  . 

8.    ORATORICAL. 

Abraham  Lincoln  ....  Emilio  Castelar .  .  . 
A    Defence    of    the    Irish 

Party Charles  Russell  .     .     . 

American  Battle-Flags  .  .  Carl  Schurz  .... 
American     Experiment     of 

Self-Government     .     .     .  Edward  Everett      .     . 


PAGE 

147 

7 
90 

114 
24. 
336 
196 
202 


323 

37 

243 
287 
301 

106 
347 

220 

103 
177 

145 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 


361 


An  Appeal  to  the   People 

A  Nation's  Honor  . 

Ancestral  Ideals    . 

A  Righteous  War  . 

A  Reunited  Country 

A  United  Country 

Character  of  Justice 

Cromwell  on  the  Death 
OF  Charles  the  First     . 

Death  of  Garfield     .     .     . 

Decisive  Integrity  .... 

Fredericksburg 

Freedom  or  Slavery  .     .     . 

Heroic  Courage      .... 

Irish  Aliens  and  English 
Victories 

John  Wycliffe  and  the 
Bible     

Lord  Chatham  Against  the 
American  War     .     .     .     . 

Nations  and  Humanity  .     . 

Public  Opinion 

Scotland     

South  Carolina  and  Mas- 
sachusetts     

South  Carolina  and  the 
Union 

The  Army  of  the  Potomac 

The  Constitutional  Con- 
vention OK  1787    .     .     .     . 

The  Dedication  of  Gettys- 
burg Cemetery    .... 

The  Future  of  America     . 

The  Greatness  of  the 
Poet 


AUTHOR. 

John  Bright   . 
Frederick  R.  Coiidert 
Henry  J.  Van  Dyke 
W.  S.  Withatn    .     . 
William  McKinley . 
Georsre  F.  Hoar  . 


19 

97 

16 

140 

356 

354 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan    303 


Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 
Jatnes  G.  Blaine 

IVilliam  Wirt     .     . 

Williatn  J.  Bryan  . 
Patrick  Henry  .  . 
Phillips  Brooks  .     . 

Richard  L.  Sheil     . 

Richard  S.  Storrs    . 

William  Pitt .     .     . 

George  William  Curtis 
Daniel  Webster  . 
Edmund  Flagg  .     . 

Daniel  Webster  .     . 

Robert  Y.  Hayne 
Chauncey  M.  Depew 

Chauncey  M.  Depew 

Abraham  Lincoln  . 
Daniel  Webster   .     . 


12 

187 
141 
290 
218 
306 

199 

238 

189 
215 

33 

245 

51 

304 
236 

i6r 

86 
208 


George  William  Curtis     .     268 


362 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 


The  Minute-Men  of  '75 

The  Necessity  of  Indepen- 
dence     

The  Noblest  Public  Virtue 

The  People  of  the  United 
States  

The  Permanency  of  Empire 

The  Pilgrim  Ancestors. 

The  Present  Age    .     .     . 

The  Puritans 

The  Queen  of  France  and 
THE  Spirit  of  Chivalry 

The  Reign  of  Napoleon 

The  Reply  of  Mr.  Pitt  to 
Sir  Robert  Walpole  . 

The  Royalty  of  Virtue 

The    Sovereignty    of    the 
People 

The    Supreme    Court    and 
THE  Constitution     .    .     . 

The    Temper    and    Aim    of 
THE  Scholar     

The  Victories  of  Peace 

ToussAiNT  L'Ouverture  .     . 

The      Washington    Monu- 
ment      

Washington    and    the    Na- 
tion   


AUTHOR. 

George  William  Curtis 

Saimiel  Adams  .  . 
Henry  Clay    .     .     . 

Grover  Cleveland  . 
Wendell  Phillips  . 
David  C.  Robinson  . 
Victor  Hugo  .  .  . 
T.  B.  Macaulay  .     . 


Edmund  Burke  .     . 
Alphonse  Lamartine 

William  Pitt .     .     . 
Henry  C.  Potter  .     . 

Ediuard  J.  Phelps  . 

Henry  Hitchcock 

William  E.  Gladstone 
Charles  Sum?ier . 
Wendell  Phillips     . 

Robert  C.  Winthrop 

John  W.  Daniel .     . 


g.     PATHETIC. 

In  School  Days John  G.  Whittier     . 

Poor  Little  Joe      ....  David  L.  Proudjit  . 

The  Drummer  Boy  ....  Anonymous    .     .     . 

The  Leper N'athaniel  P.  Willis 

The  Stranger's  Alms      .    .  Henry  Abbey  .    .     . 


PAGE 

43 

250 
194 

170 
276 
69 
308 
292 

249 

127 
204 

297 

313 

310 
197 
212 

154 

344 


325 
45 

330 

57 

8 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 


Z^l 


10.     PATHETIC   AND   DESCRIPTIVE. 

AUTHOR. 

Driving  Home  the  Cows    .  Kate  Putnam  Osgood  . 

Guilty  or  Nor  Guilty    .     .  A)ioiiyinoits    .... 

Ratisbon Robert  Bro'iUiiiiig     .     . 

The  Battle Schiller 

The  Boys Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

The  Grand  Advance  .     .     .  Frank  H.  Gassaway     . 

The  Hero  of  the  Gun    .     .  Margaret  J.  Preston     . 

The  Home Henry  IV.  Grady     .     . 

The  Kitten  of  the  Regi- 
ment        James  Buck  ham  . 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknov*?  .     .  /o/m  G.  VVhittier    .     . 

The  Prayer  of  Agassiz  .     .  /o/in  G.  Whittier     .     . 

The  Pride  of  Battery  "  B"  Frank  H.  Gassaway    . 

Wounded /o/in  IF.  Watson      .     . 

II.   patriotic. 

American  Rights     ....  Joseph  Warren    .     . 

A  Retrospect Richard  D.  Hubbard 

Liberty Henry  George      .     . 

Our  Country Benjamin  Harrison 

Our  Flag  at  Apia  ....  Annie  Bronson  King 

The  Centennial  of  '76  .     .  William  M.  Evarts 

The  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence    Carl  Schurz  .     .     . 

The  Dome  of  the  Repub- 
lic       Andrew  D.  White  . 

The   First   Baitle   of  the 

Revoh;tion Anonymous    .     .     . 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers      .     .  Mrs.  Hemans      .     . 

The  Republic's  Duty.     .     .  William  McKinley . 

The  Revolutionary  Alarm  George  Bancroft .    . 

The  Spartans  and  the  Pil- 
grims       Rufus  Choate .     .     . 

Warren's  Address  ....  John  Pierpont     .     . 


PAGE 

222 

210 

61 

152 

128 

227 

84 

259 
87 

314 


296 

55 

lOI 

93 
168 

264 

231 

48 

320 

181 

148 
201 


364  CLASSIFIED   INDEX. 

12.     PHILOSOPHICAL. 

AUTHOR.  PAGE 

Geology Jatnes  Dwight  Dana    .     .  49 

Laugh     and     the     World 

Laughs  With  You   .     .     .     Anonymous 135 

Ode  to  Duty William  Wordsworth  .     .  281 

Old  Faiths New/nan  Smyth  ....  62 

The  Fool's  Prayer      .     .     .     Edward  Rowland  Sill      .  240 

The  Hand T.  De  Witt  Talmage    .     .  i-jz 

The    Narrowness    of    Spe- 
cialties      Edward  Bnlwer  Lytton   .  113 

The  Petrified  Fern    .     .     .     Mary  L.  Branch     .     .     .  293 

The  Sacredness  of  Work  .      Thomas  Carlyle ....  183 
The      Scholar      and     the 

J      State Fra^ik  S.  Black  ....  339 

The  Shell Alfred,  Lord  Tetmyson    .  273 

Ultima  Veritas Washington  Gladden   .     .  234 

What's  Hallowed  Ground.'     Tho7nas  Campbell   .     .     .  125 

13.     ROMANTIC  AND   DRAMATIC. 

Alp's  Decision Lord  Byron 137 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Abbey,  Henry. 
Adams,  Samuel. 
Arnold,  Matthew. 

Bancroft,  George. 

Barr,  Mary  A. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward. 

Black,  Frank  S. 

Blaine,  James  Gillespie. 

Braddock,  Emily  A. 

Branch,  Mary  Lydia  Bolles. 

Bright,  John. 

Brooks,  Elbridge  Streeter. 

Brooks,  Phillips. 

Browning,  Robert. 

Bryan,  William  Jennings. 

Buckham,  James. 

Burke,  Edmund. 

Byrom,  John. 

Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel. 

Campbell,  Thomas. 
Carlyle,  Thomas. 
Castelar,  Emilio. 
Choate,  Rufus. 
Clay,  Henry. 

Clemens,  .Samuel  Langhorn. 
Cleveland,  Stephen  Grover. 
Collins,  William. 
Conant,  Helen  Stevens. 
*' Coolidge,  .Susan." 
Coudert,  P'rederick. 
Curtis,  George  William. 


Dana,  James  Dwight. 
Daniel,  John  Warwick. 
Depew,  Chauncey  Mitchell. 
Dillmore,  Richard  Casper. 
Disraeli,  Benjamin. 
Dunbar,  Paul  Lawrence. 

Eliot,  Charles  William. 
Evarts,  William  Maxwell. 
Everett,  Edward. 

Flagg,  Edmund. 
Froude,  James  Anthony. 

Garfield,  James  Abram. 
Gassaway,  Frank  H. 
Gillian,  S.  W. 
Gladden,  Washington. 
Gladstone,  William  Ewart. 
Grady,  Henry  Woodfen. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greenc. 
Harrison,  Benjamin. 
Hayne,  Robert  Young. 
Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea. 
Henry,  Patrick. 
Hewitt,  Abram  Stevens. 
Hillhouse,  James  Abraham. 
Hitchcock,  Henry. 
Hoar,  George  Frisbie. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 
Hood,  Thomas. 
Horace. 


365 


366 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Hubbard,  Richard  Dudley. 
Hugo,  Victor  Marie. 

Irving,  Washington. 

Kellogg,  Elijah. 
King,  Annie  Bronson. 
Knowles,  James  Sheridan. 
Krauth,  Charles  Porterfield. 

Lamartine,  Alphonse. 

Lathrop,  George  Parsons. 

Lincoln,  Abraham. 

Lippard,  George. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

Lovett,  Eva. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Lytton,  Edward  Bulwer. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington. 

Mackay,  Charles. 

"Mark    Twain"    (Samuel   L, 

Clemens). 
McKinley,  William. 
Milton,  John. 

Mitchel,  Ormsby  MacKnight. 
Mitford,  Mary  Russell. 
Mommsen,  Theodor. 
Montgomery,  James. 

Nason,  Emma  Huntington. 

Osgood,  Kate  Putnam. 

Phelps,  Edward  John. 
Phillips,  Wendell. 
Pierpont,  John, 
pike,  Manley  H. 
Pitt,  William. 
Porter,  Horace. 
Potter,  Henry  Codman. 
preston,  Margaret  Junkin. 
proudfit,  David  Law. 


Robinson,  David  C. 
Raskin,  John. 
Russell,  Charles. 

Sangster,  Mary  Elizabeth. 

Schiller,  Johann  Christoph 
Friedrich  von. 

Schurz,  Carl. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Shakespeare,  William. 

Shell,  Richard  Lalor. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley 
Butler. 

Shurtleff,  Ernest  Warburton. 

Sienkiewicz,  Henryk. 

Sill,  Edward  Rowland. 

Smyth,  Samuel  Phillips  New- 
man. 

Sophocles. 

Storrs,  Richard  Salter. 

Sumner,  Charles. 

Talmage,  Thomas  DeWitt. 
Tennyson,  Alfred. 
Thompson,  Charles  Lemuel. 
Thompson,  Will  H. 
Trowbridge,  John  Townsend. 
Tyr-tseus. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry  Jackson. 

Warren,  Joseph. 
Watson,  John  Whitaker. 
Webster,  Daniel. 
White,  Andrew  Dickson. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 
Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker. 
Winthrop,  Robert  Charles. 
Wirt,  William. 
Witham,  W.  S. 

Wolcott,    John    ("Peter    Pin- 
dar"). 
Woolsey,  Sarah  Chauncey. 
Wordsworth,  William. 


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Contents  of  **Commenceme-.t  Parts." 

J.    Introduction  to  Gjniniencement  Parts. 

2.  The  Orator  and  the  Oration. 

(a)  The  Orator. 

(d)  The  Oration. 

(( )     The  Parts  of  the  Oration. 

3.  Commencement  Parts, 

(/)  A  Latin  Salutatory.    De  Nostro  Cum  Aliis Civitatibus 

Agendi  Modo. 
(2)  Orations. 

(rt)  American  Ideals. 

id)   Culture  and  Service. 

(c)  Education  as  Related  to  Civic  Prosperity. 
Id)  Hebraism  and  Culture. 

ie)    Marc  Antony, 

f/")  Modem  Knighthood. 

Ig)  The  Negro  and  the  South. 

(A)  The  Decisive  Battle  of  the  Rebellion. 

(i)    The  University  and  True  Patriotism. 

(j  )  The  Discipline  of  Life  and  Character. 

(/^)  The  Liberalistic  Temper. 

(/)    The  Spirit  that  Should  Animate. 

(»/)  Reverence  Due  from  the  Old  to  the  Young. 
(j)  Appropriate  Subjects  for  the  Oration  (I- 136). 
(^)  Valedictories. 

(a)  "  Perduret  atque  Valeat"  (Latin). 

[d)  Service. 

( c )  For  a  Dental  College. 

(d)  For  a  College. 
(^)    For  a  School. 
{/)   For  a  College. 
{g)   Good  Day. 

LIBERALISM, 
(j")  Mixed  Valedictory  and  Oration  :  Catholicity 

4.  Class  Day  Exercises. 

( /)   Introduction. 
(^)  Class  Poems. 

(a)  O  Years  You  Have  Vanished. 

\b)  The  Breath  of  the  Spirit. 

{c)   Home. 

\d)  A  Vision. 

(e)  Alma  Mater. 
(j>)  President's  Address 
(^)  Salutatory. 


4.  Class  Day  Exercises  {contimtetT). 

(5)  Dux's  Speech. 

(6)  Ivy  Oration. 

(7)  Class  Song. 
{8)  Ivy  Oration. 
(9)  Class  Will. 

(/o)   Ivy  Oration. 
(//)  Ivy  Poem. 
{i3)  Ivy  Song. 

(/j)  Class  Oration — The  Old  and  New. 
{14)  Washington's  Birthday  Oration, 
(/j)  Presentation  Oration. 
'  (/6)  Class  Oration — Abraham  Lincoln. 
(//)  Class  Mottoes  (1-42). 

5.  The  Composition  and  Essay. 

(/)   Introductory  Suggestions. 

{a)   Model  Outline  of  Composition 
lb)    Model  Oudine  of  Essay. 
\c)    Brief  Essay. 

(2)   Compositions. 

((7)   Autumn. 

{b)    "What  Makes  the  Sky  Blue? 
{c)    The  Beauties  of  Nature. 
(^)  Winter  Leaves. 

(j)  Essays. 

(a)  Beatrice.     (Character  Study.) 

(b)  Independent  Character.     (Descriptive.) 

(c)  Ruskin'  s  ' '  Ethics  of  the  Dust. ' '  (Critical.) 
\d)   Edward  Rowl  and  Sill.     (Literarj-.) 

{e)    Intellectual  Improvement,  an  Aid  to  the  Im. 

agination.      (Philosophical  Disputation.) 
(/)  The  Survival  of  the  Fittest  in   Literature. 

(Literary  Discussion.) 
{q)    "Una."     (Analytical.) 
(//)  Thomas  Chatterton.     (Prize  College  Essay.) 
(/)    Kipling's  Religion.     (Literary.) 
(7)   The  Reaction  Against  the  Classics.  (Colloquy.) 
(/•)   Memory's  Message.     (Dedicatory.) 
(/)    Manual  Training  and    Intellectual  Develop- 
ment.    (Normal  School  Prize  Essay.) 
(w)  True  Nobility.     (A  College  Prize  Essay.) 
(4)  Subjects  for  Composition. 
(</)   Narrative  (l-35)- 
\b)    Descriptive  (1-55). 

{j)  Themes  for  Essays  (1-53). 


6»    After-Dinner  Speaking, 

(j)  Introductory  Suggestions. 

(3)  An  Address  of  Welcome  at  an  Alumni  Dinner  (In 

Honor  of  the  College  President). 
(3)   Response  to  a  Toast,  "  Yale  and  Princeton." 
y)   Response  to  a  Toast,  "  The  Puritan  and  the  Dutch. 

man. ' ' 

(5)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "The  Plain  People." 

(6)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "Woman." 

(7)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "  A   Business  Man's   Political 

Obligations." 

(8)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "  The  Sovereignty  of  the  United 

States." 

(9)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "  Recollection  the  Strongest  In- 

fluence." 

(10)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "  The  Future  of  the  Nation." 

(11)  An  After-Dinner  Story. 
{12)  A  List  of  Toasts  (1-40). 

7.  Flag  Day. 

(/)   Introduction. 

(2)  Recitation  for  a  Boy  or  Girl, 
(j)   Recitation — Our  Country. 

(  /)   Recitation — The  Stars  and  Stripes. 

(5)  Address — Old  Glory. 

(6)  Address — The  Voice  of  the  Flag. 

8.  'Words  of  the  National  Airs. 

(/)  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean. 

(3)  Hail  Columbia, 
(j)  America. 

{^)  I'he  Star-Spangled  Banner, 
(j)  Our  Flag  is  There. 

9.  Speeches  for  National  Holidays. 

(/)  Independence  Day  Address, 

{2)  Lift  up  Your  Hearts.     (Pourth  of  July.) 

(j)  Lincoln  the  Immortal.     (Lincoln's  Birthday.) 

(4)  Washington's  I5irthday  Address. 

(5)  Washington's  Birthday. 

(6)  Tree  Planting.     (A  Poem  for  Arbor  Day.) 

(7)  Decoration  Day  Address.  ' 
(5)  Memorial  Day  Ode — Our  Honored  Dead. 


to.    Occasional  Addresses, 
(/)   Religious. 

{^a)  Growth.  An  Address  before  a  Christian 
Endeavor  Convention. 

(^)  To  be  Kings  among  Men.  A  Chapel  Ad- 
dress by  a  College  President. 

(^)    TheCultureof  the  Imagination.     Address  be- 
fore a  Yomig  Men's  Christian  Association. 
(2)   Political. 

(rt)  The  Cross  of  War.  Delivered  in  the  Con- 
gress of  the  United  States. 

(d)    Heroesof  the  "  Maine  Disaster."     Delivered 
to  the  ^iational  House  of  Representatives. 
(j)   Social. 

(a)  The  Obligations  of  Wealth.  A  Washington's 
Birthday  Address. 

(5)  An  Address  to  Northern  and  Southern  Vet- 
erans at  Chickamauga. 

(3)    An  Address  before  the  Order  of  Elks. 

(c)   A  Poem  for  a  Silver  Wedding. 

(</)  An  Address  at  the  Dedication  of  a  Memorial 
Tablet. 

(^)  Presentation  of  a  Flag  to  a  Regiment  Depart- 
ing for  War. 

(y)  Presentation   Address    to    a    Foreman   by   a 
Workman. 
(.^)   Educational. 

(a)  The  Higher  Education.  An  Address  before 
a  Body  of  Educators. 

(/')  Dedication  of  a  School  Building.  An  Address 
of  Welcome. 

(r)  Wealth  and  Progress.  An  Address  at  the 
Dedication  of  a  Public  Building. 

(^cf)  An  Address  on  Presenting  the  Keys  of  a  New 
School  Building. 

(^)  An  Address  to  a  School  Graduating  Class  by 
a  Teacher. 

(/}  Remarks  to  a  Graduating  Class  of  Young 
Ladies  by  a  Ai.sitor. 

(c)    An  Address  to  a  Graduating  Class  of  Nurses. 

(/i)  Address  to  a  School  Graduating  Class  by  a 
Clergyman. 

(/)    Dedication  of  a  Public  Eibrary. 

(/)  Address  to  a  Graduating  Class  I)ya  Financier. 

(/J')  Address  before  an  Educational  Convention. 
Foreign  Influence  upon  American  Uni- 
versity  Life. 


10.    Occasional  Addresses  {confinucd). 

(/)  Success  in  Life.  An  Address  before  a  Bui^- 
ness  College. 

(w)  Address  before  a  College  Graduating  Class. 

(«)  Inaugural  Address  of  a  President  of  a  Uni- 
versity. 

(<>)  An  Address  on  Receiving  the  Degree  of 
Doctor  of  Laws  from  a  University. 

(/)  The  Presiding  Officer  s  Address  at  a  College 
Debate. 

(jf)  The  Influence  of  the  Great  Teacher.  An 
Address  before  College  Alumni. 

(r)    Response  of  a  College  Professor  to  a  Compli- 
mentary Resolution. 
(5")   Festival  Days. 

(rt)  A  Thanksgiving  Speech. 

(/')   A  Thanksgiving  Day  Address. 

( <^ )   An  Exercise  Around  the  Christmas  Tree. 

((/)  A  Mock  Menu  for  a  March  Banquet. 

(e)   A  Banquet  Menu. 

{ f)   A  Thanksgiving  Song. 
(6)   Miscellaneous  Abstracts. 

(«)  At  the  Dedication  of  a  Ilall  cf  Science  and 
Art. 

{b)   Response  to  a  Toast,    "Noblesse  Oblige." — 
(Phi  Beta  Kappa  Banquet.) 

(c)  Grand  Army  Speech. 


BOTH  81DE8  OF 
LIVE  QUESTIONS 
FULLY  DISCUSSED 


Contents  of  "Pros  and  Cons/' 


SBCTION 

I.  How  to  Organize  a  Society, 

II.  Rules  Governing  Debates, 

III.  Introductory  Observations, 

IV.  Political  Economy, 


PAGE 

I 

12 

15 

24 


Questions  Fully  Discussed  in  the  Affirmative  and  the  Negative. 


VI. 
VII. 


VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XL 
XII. 


XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 


XVI. 


XVII. 
XVIII. 


XIX 


XX. 

XXI. 


Resolved,  That  the  Single  Gold  Standard  Is  for 
the  Best  Interests  of  the  Country, 

Should  Cuba  be  Annexed  to  the  United  States? 

Resolved,  That  the  Fear  of  Punishment  Has  a 
Greater  Influence  on  Human  Conduct  than 
Hope  of  Reward,       ..... 

Resolved,  That  the  United  States  should  Adopt 
Penny  Postage,  ..... 

Resolved,  That  High  License  Is  the  Best  Means 
oi  Checking  Intemperance, 

Should  the  Government  of  the  United  States 
Own  and  Control  the  Railroads  ? 

Should  Hawaii  have  been  Annexed  to  the  U.  S.  ? 

Resolved,  That  Woman  Suffrage  should  Be 
Adopted  by  an  Amendment  to  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,    .... 

Resolved,  That  the  World  Owes  more  to  Navi- 
gation than  to  Railroads,    -         .  .  . 

Resolved,  That  the  United  States  should  Build 
and  Control  the  Nicaragua  Canal, 

Resolved,  That  Tariff  for  Revenue  Only  Is  of 
Greater  Benefit  to  the  People  of  the  United 
States  Than  a  Protective  Tariff, 

Resolved,  That  the  Expensive  Social  Entertain- 
ments of  the  Wealthy  Are  of  More  Benefit 
than  Injury  to  the  Country, 

Resolved,  That  the  Hypocrite  Is  a  More  Des- 
picable Character  than  the  Liar, 

Resolved,  That  the  Government  of  the  United 
States  should  Own  and  Control  the  Tele- 
phone and  Telegraph  Systems,    . 

Resolved,  That  the  Average  Young  Man  of 
To-day  Has  Greater  Opportunities  to  make 
Life  a  Success  Financially  than  His  Fore- 
fathers,     ....... 

Is  Immigration  Detrimental  to  the  United  States? 

Are  Large  Dept.  Stores  an  Injury  to  the  Country? 


28 
61 


77 

86 

94 

106 
122 


127 

135 
148 


160 


172 
179 


185 


199 
206 
219 


Contents  of  ''Pros  and  Cons/* 


SSCTIOH  PAGE 

XXII.  Should  Greenbacks  Be  Retired  and  the  Gov- 
ernment Go  Out  of  Its  Present  System 
of  Banking? 232 

XXIII.  Resolved,  That  Our  Present  System  of  Tax- 

ation is  the  Best  that  Can  Be  Devised,     250 

XXIV.  Should  the  Presidentand  Senate  of  the  U.S.  be 

Elected  by  Direct  Vote  of  the  People?     25S 
XXV.     Resolved,    That   It  Is  Not  Good  Policy  for 
the  Government  of  the  United  States  to 
Establish  a  System  of  Postal  Savings,     286 

Questions  Outlined. 
XXVI.  Resolved,  That  It  is  for  the  Best  Interests 
of  All  the  People  for  the  Government  to 
Own  and  Control  the  Coal  Mines,  .  31S 
XXVII.  Resolved,  That  Trusts  and  Monopolies  Are 
a  Positive  Injury  to  the  People  Finan- 
cially,          327 

XXVIII.  Resolved,  That  Cities  should  Owrn  and  Con- 
trol All  the  Public  Franchises  Now 
Conferred  upon  Corporations,  .  .  337 
XXIX.  Resolved,  That  Education  a;.  It  Is  Now 
Thrust  upon  our  Youth  Is  Dangerous  to 
Health  and  Good  Government,  .     351 

XXX.     Resolved,    That  National  Ranks  should  Be 

Abolished, 35^ 

XXXI.  Resolved,  That  Bimetallism  and  Not  Pro- 
tection is  the  Secret  of  I'uture  Pros- 
perity,         366 

Subjects  for  Debate. 
XXXII.     Two  Hundred  and  Fifty  Selected  Topics  for 

Discussion,         .....     37^ 
Addresses  for  Salutatory,  Valedictory,  and  other  occasions. 
X.X.VIII.     Oration— Decoration  Day,  .  .  .     4°' 

XXXIV.     Essay— February  22,  .         .         .         .407 

XXXV.     Salutatory— Fife, 420 

XXXVI.     Oration— Fourth  of  July 426 

XXX  VII.     Valedictory, 434 

XXXVIII.     Address— Christmas  Eve,    .  .         .         .440 

XXXIX.     A  Temperance  Address-The  Nickel  Behind 

the  Bar 444 

XL.     Essay— Coa-t  Defenses,      .         .         .         .45° 


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Perhaps  the  strongest  feature  of  our  book  is  the  carefull> 
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